WILLIAM    SHARP 

A    MEMOIR 


f^^-6cca??iy 


WILLIAM  SHARP 

(FIONA   MACLEOD) 

A    MEMOIR 

COMPILED   BY  HIS  WIFE 

ELIZABETH    A.    SHARP 


NEW    YORK 

DUFFIELD    &     COMPANY 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 


THE  TEOW   PRESS   •   NEW  YORK 


PREFACE 

When  the  secret  of  tlie  identity  of  Fiona  Macleod — so 
loyally  guarded  by  a  number  of  friends  for  twelve  years 
— ^was  finally  made  known,  mucb  speculation  arose  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  dual  element  that  had  found  expression 
in  the  collective  work  of  William  Sharp.  Many  sugges- 
tions, wide  of  the  mark,  were  advanced;  among  others, 
that  the  writer  had  assumed  the  pseudonym  as  a  joke, 
and  having  assumed  it  found  himself  constrained  to  con- 
tinue its  use.  A  few  of  the  critics  understood.  Prof. 
Patrick  Geddes  realised  that  the  discussion  was  produc- 
tive of  further  misunderstanding,  and  wrote  to  me: 
"  Should  you  not  explain  that  F.  M.  was  not  simply  W.  S., 
but  that  W.  S.  in  his  deepest  moods  became  F.  M.,  a  sort 
of  dual  personality  in  short,  not  a  mere  nom-de-guerre  ?  " 
It  was  not  expedient  for  me  at  that  moment  to  do  so.  I 
preferred  to  wait  till  I  could  prepare  as  adequate  an  ex- 
planation as  possible.  My  chief  aim,  therefore,  in  writ- 
ing about  my  husband  and  in  giving  a  sketch  of  his  life, 
has  been  to  indicate,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  the  growth 
and  development  in  his  work  of  the  dual  literary  expres- 
sion of  himself. 

The  most  carefully  compiled  record  of  a  life  can  be  but 
partially  true,  since  much  of  necessity  must  be  left  un- 
said. A  biographer,  moreover,  can  delineate  another 
human  being  only  to  the  extent  of  his  understanding  of 
that  fellow  being.  In  so  far  as  he  lacks,  not  only  knowl- 
edge of  facts,  but  also  the  illumination  of  intuition  and 
sympathy,  to  that  extent  will  he  fail  to  present  a  finished 
study  of  his  subject.  And  because  no  one  can  wholly 
know  another:  because  one  of  necessity  interprets  an- 
other through  the  colour  of  his  or  her  mind,  I  am  very 
conscious  of  my  own  limitations  in  this  respect.  As,  how- 
ever, I  have  known  AVilliam  Sharp  for  more  consecutive 


2037279 


ii  PEEFACE 

years  than  any  other  of  his  intimate  friends,  I  perhaps 
am  able  therefore  to  offer  the  fullest  survey  of  the  un- 
folding of  his  life ;  though  I  realise  that  others  may  have 
known  him  better  than  I  on  some  sides  of  his  nature :  in 
particular  as  he  impressed  those  who  had  not  discovered, 
or  were  not  in  sympathy  with,  the  "  F.  M."  phase  in  him. 

The  life  of  William  Sharp  divides  itself  naturally  into 
two  halves :  the  first  ends  with  the  publication  by  W.  S. 
of  Vistas,  and  the  second  begins  with  Pharais,  the  first 
book  signed  Fiona  Macleod.  It  has  been  my  endeavour 
to  tell  his  story  by  means  of  letters  and  diaries ;  of  letters 
written  by  him,  and  of  others  written  to  him,  concerning 
his  work  and  interests.  To  quote  his  own  words :  "  A 
group  of  intimate  letters,  written  with  no  foreseen  or 
suspected  secondary  intention,  will  probably  give  us  more 
insight  into  the  inner  nature  of  a  man  than  any  num- 
ber of  hypothetical  pros  and  cons  on  the  part  of  a 
biographer,  or  than  reams  of  autobiography.  ...  I  know 
Keats  for  instance  far  better  through  his  letters  than 
by  even  the  ablest  and  most  intimate  memoirs  that  have 
been  written  of  him:  the  real  man  is  revealed  in  them 
and  is  brought  near  to  us  till  we  seem  to  hear  his  voice 
and  clasp  his  hand." 

The  diaries  are  fragmentary.  They  were  usually  be- 
gun at  each  New  Year,  but  were  speedily  discontinued; 
or  noted  down  intermittently,  during  a  sojourn  abroad, 
as  a  record  of  work.  He  was  a  good  correspondent,  both 
as  W.  S.  and  F.  M.  I  have  thus  tried  to  make  the 
book  as  autobiographic  as  possible,  by  means  of  these 
letters  and  diaries,  and  I  have  added  only  what  has 
seemed  to  me  necessary  to  make  the  narrative  sequent. 
Unfortunately,  letters  have  not  been  available  from  sev- 
eral valuable  sources;  and  I  regret  the  absence  of  any 
written  by  him  to  Walter  Pater,  George  Meredith,  Theo- 
dore Watts-Dunton,  Arthur  Symons,  and  to  one  or  two  of 
his  most  intimate  friends. 

I  take  this  opportunity  of  expressing  to  many  friends 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  my  appreciation  of  their 
courtesy  in  placing  letters  at  my  disposal;  also  for  per- 


PREFACE  m 

mission  accorded  to  me  by  Mr.  Robert  Ross  for  the  use  of 
letters  from  Oscar  Wilde,  and  by  Mr.  Charles  Baxter,  for 
letters  from  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Through  the  kind- 
ness of  Mrs.  Sturgis  I  have  included  among  the  illustra- 
tions a  portrait  of  her  father  George  Meredith  (dated 
1898).  I  am  indebted  to  Miss  Pater  for  the  photograph 
of  her  brother  Walter  Pater ;  and  to  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti 
for  that  of  his  brother  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 

Of  the  four  portraits  of  William  Sharp,  herein  repro- 
duced, the  earliest  was  taken  about  the  time  of  the  publi- 
cation of  his  first  volume  of  poems.  The  pastel  by  the 
Norwegian  painter,  Charles  Ross,  was  executed  in  Rome 
in  1891,  two  years  before  Pharais  was  written;  and  the 
etching  by  our  friend,  Mr.  William  Strang  A.R.A.,  who 
has  kindly  sanctioned  my  use  of  it,  dates  to  1896,  in  which 
year  were  published  The  Washer  of  the  Ford,  Green 
Fire,  and  From  the  Hills  of  Dream.  The  final  portrait 
of  my  husband  was  taken  in  Sicily  in  1903  by  the  Hon. 
Alexander  Nelson  Hood  (Duke  of  Bronte),  who  also  has 
permitted  me  to  reproduce  his  photograph  of  II  Castello 
di  Maniace,  Bronte — on  the  inland  shoulder  of  Etna — 
close  to  which,  on  a  sloping  hillside,  in  the  little  wood- 
land burial  ground,  and  within  sound  of  rushing  waters, 
stands  the  lona  cross  erected  to  the  memory  of  William 
Sharp  and  "  Fiona  Macleod." 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PART   I:  William  Sharp 1 

Chapter  I:  Childhood 3 

Chapter  II:  Australia 17 

Chapter  III:  Early  Days  in  London      .  .35 

Chapter  IV:  The  Death  op  Rossetti 58 

Chapter  V:  First  Visit  to  Italy 78 

Chapter  VI:  Sonnets  of  This  Century 104 

Chapter  VII:  The  Sport  of  Chance 

Shelley 121 

Chapter  VIII:  Romantic  Ballads 

The  Children  of  To-Morrow 135 

Chapter  IXi  First  Visit  to  America 149 

Chapter  X:   Browning 

The  Joseph  Severn  Memoirs 158 

Chapter  XI:    Rome 

Sospiri  di  Roma 173 

Chapter  XII :  Walt  Whitman 

The  Pagan  Review 192 

Chapter  XIII:  Algiers 

Vistas 208 

PART   II:   Fiona  Macleod 219 

Chapter  XIV:  The  Pseudonym 

Pharais 221 

Chapter  XV:  The  Mountain  Lovers 

The  Sin  Eater 242 

Chapter  XVI:  The  Sin  Eater 256 

Chapter  XVII:  Runes  of  the  Sorrows  of  Women 

Green  Fire 266 


vi  WILLIAM    SHARP 

PAGE 

Chapter  XVIII:   From  the  Hills  of  Dream 

The  Laughter  of  Peterkin 279 

Chapter  XIX:  Wives  in  Exile 

Silence  Farm 292 

Chapter  XX:  The  Dominion  of  Dreams        .       .       .       •       •     304 

Chapter  XXI:  The  Divine  Adventure 


Celtic 


314 


Chapter  XXII:  Provence 

Maniace 328 

Chapter  XXIII:  Lismore 

Taormina 344 

Chapter  XXIV:   Winter  in  Athens 

Greek  Backgrounds 367 

Chapter  XXV:   The  Winged  Destiny 

Literary  Geography 381 

Chapter  XXVI:  1905 395 

Chapter  XXVII:  Conclusion 421 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 
William  Sharp  (1896),  after  an  etching  by  William  Strang,  A.  R.  A. 

Facing  Page 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 58 

William  Sharp  (1883),  after  photograph  taken  in  Rome    ...  78 

Walter  Pater,  after  a  photograph  by  Frederick  Hollyer  .        .        .  104 

William  Sharp  (1891),  after  a  pastel  drawing  by  Charles  Ross       .  180 

Fac-Simile  op  an  Autograph  Poem  by  William  Sharp    .       .       .  216 

Fac-Simile  of  an  Autograph  "Fiona  Macleod"  Poem  by  William 

Sharp 244 

II  Castello  di  Maniace,  Bronte,  Sicily,  after  a  photograph  by  the 

Hon.  Alex.  Nelson  Hood 332 

William  Sharp  (1903),  after  a  photograph  by  the  Hon.  Alex.  Nelson 

Hood   (Duke  of  Bronte) 358 

George  Meredith,  after  a  photograph  by  Frederick  Hollyer    .        .  368 

Mrs.  William  Sharp  (1909),  after  a  photograph  by  T.  Craig-Annan  .  414 


PAKT   I 
WILLIAM   SHAEP 


"  Praised   he   the  fathomless  universe, 
For  life  and  joy  .  .  .  and  for  love,  sweet   love." 

W.  Whitman. 


"  But  one  to  ichom  life  appeals  iy  myriad  avenues,  all  alluring  and  full 
of  wonder  and  mystery,  cannot  always  abide  where  the  heart  most  longs  to 
he.  It  is  well  to  remember  that  there  are  Shndowy  "Waters,  even  in  the 
cities,  and  that  the  Fount  of  Youth  is  discoverable  in  the  dreariest  towns 
as  well  a^  in  Hy  Brasil:  a  truth  apt  to  he  forgotten  by  those  of  us  who 
dwell  with  ever-wondering  delight  in  that  land  of  lost  romance  which  had 
its  own  day,  as  this  epoch  of  a  still  stranger,  if  less  obvious,  romance  has 
its  passing  hour." 

F.  M. 


CHAPTER   I 

CHILDHOOD 

"  Childhood,  -when  the  child  is  as  a  flower  of  wilding  growth, 
and  when  it  is  at  one  with  nature,  fellow  with  the  winds 
and  birds."  W.  S. 

"  That  man  is  fortunate  who  has  half  his  desires 
gratified,  who  lives  to  see  half  his  desires  accomplished," 
says  Schopenhauer,  and  taking  the  axiom  to  be  true  I 
am  not  going  back  on  it,  for  certainly  more  than  half 
of  the  desires  of  my  boyhood  and  youth  have  been 
fulfilled.  I  come  of  a  West  of  Scotland  stock  which — 
perhaps  in  part  because  of  its  Scandinavian  admixture 
— has  always  had  in  it  '  the  wandering  blood ' :  and  from 
my  early  days,  when  at  the  mature  age  of  three  I  escaped 
one  night  from  the  nursery  and  was  found  in  the  garden 
at  midnight,  a  huddled  little  white  heap  at  the  foot  of 
a  great  poplar  that  was  at  once  my  ceaseless  delight  and 
wonder  and  a  fascination  that  was  almost  terror,  a  de- 
sire of  roaming  possessed  me." 

That  William  Sharp  should  be  one  of  the  fortunates 
who,  toward  the  end  of  life,  could  say  he  had  fulfilled 
more  than  half  of  his  early  desires,  was  due  mainly  to 
a  ceaseless  curiosity  and  love  of  adventure,  to  a  happy 
fearlessness  of  disposition  that  prompted  him  when 
starting  on  any  quest  to  seize  the  propitious  moment, 
and  if  necessary  to  bum  his  boats  behind  him.  He  be- 
lieved himself  to  have  been  bom  under  a  lucky  star. 
Notwithstanding  the  great  hardships  and  difficulties 
that  sometimes  barred  his  way,  his  vivid  imagination, 
aided  by  a  strong  will  and  untiring  perseverance,  opened 
to  him  many  doors  of  the  wonderland  of  life  that  lured 
him  in  his  dreams.  The  adventurous  and  the  romantic 
were  to  him  as  beacons;  and  though  their  lights  were 
at  times  overshadowed  by  the  tragedy  of  human  life,  his 


4  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

natural  buoyancy  of  disposition,  his  power  of  whole- 
hearted enjoyment  in  things  large  and  small,  his  ready 
intuitive  sympathy,  preserved  in  him  a  spirit  of  fine 
optimism  to  the  end. 

The  conditions  of  his  early  boyhood  were  favourable 
to  the  development  of  his  natural  inclination. 

He  was  born  on  the  12th  of  September,  1855,  at  4 
Garthland  Place,  Paisley,  on  a  day  when  the  bells  were 
ringing  for  the  fall  of  Sebastopol.  He  was  the  eldest 
of  a  family  of  three  sons  and  five  daughters.  His 
father,  David  Galbreath  Sharp,  a  partner  in  an  old-es- 
tablished mercantile  house,  was  the  youngest  son  of  Wil- 
liam Sharp,  whose  family  originally  came  from  near 
Dunblane.  His  mother  was  a  Miss  Katherine  Brooks, 
the  eldest  daughter  of  William  Brooks,  Swedish  Vice- 
Consul  at  Glasgow,  and  of  Swedish  descent,  whose  wife 
was  a  Miss  Agnes  Henderson,  related  to  the  Stewarts 
of  Shambellie  and  the  Murrays  of  Philiphaugh. 

Mr.  David  Sharp  was  a  genial,  observant  man,  hu- 
mourous, and  a  finished  mimic.  Though  much  of  his  life 
was  of  necessity  spent  in  a  city,  he  had  a  keen  love  of  the 
country,  and  especially  of  the  West  Highlands.  Every 
summer  he  took  a  house  for  three  or  four  months  on  the 
shores  of  the  Clyde,  or  on  one  of  the  beautiful  sea  lochs, 
or  on  the  island  of  Arran,  now  so  exploited,  but  then 
relatively  secluded.  Very  early  he  initiated  his  son  in 
the  arts  of  swimming,  rowing,  and  line  fishing;  sailed 
with  him  along  the  beautiful  shores  of  the  Western  High- 
lands and  the  Inner  Hebrides. 

Mrs.  David  Sharp  had  been  brought  up  by  her  father 
to  read  seriously,  and  to  take  an  interest  in  his  favour- 
ite study  of  Geology.  It  was  she  who  watched  over 
her  son's  work  at  college,  and  made  facilities  for 
him  to  follow  his  special  pursuits  at  home.  But  the 
boy  was  never  urged  to  distinguish  himself  at  college. 
He  was  considered  too  delicate  to  be  subjected  to  severe 
mental  pressure;  and  he  met  with  no  encouragement 
from  either  parent  in  his  wish  to  throw  himself  into  the 
study  of  science  or  literature  as  a  profession,  for  such  a 


CHILDHOOD  5 

course  seemed  to  them  to  offer  no  prospects  for  his  future. 
It  was  from  Mrs.  Sharp  that  her  son  inherited  his  Scandi- 
navian physique  and  high  colouring;  for  in  appearance 
he  resembled  his  fair-complexioned,  tall  maternal  grand- 
father. The  blend  of  nationalities  in  him,  slight  though 
the  Swedish  strain  was,  produced  a  double  strain.  He 
was,  in  the  words  of  a  friend,  a  Viking  in  build,  a  Scandi- 
navian in  cast  of  mind,  a  Celt  in  heart  and  spirit. 

As  a  little  child  he  was  very  delicate. 

The  long  months  each  year  by  mountain  and  sea,  and 
the  devotion  of  his  Highland  nurse  Barbara,  and  his  de- 
light in  open-air  life,  were  the  most  potent  factors  in  the 
inward  growth  of  his  mind  and  spirit.  From  his  earliest 
days  he  was  a  passionate  lover  of  nature,  a  tireless 
observer  of  her  moods  and  changes,  for  he  had  always 
felt  himself  to  be  "  at  one  with  nature,  fellow  with 
the  winds  and  birds."  And  Barbara,  the  Highland 
woman,  it  was  she  who  told  him  stories  of  Faerie, 
crooned  to  him  old  Gaelic  songs,  and  made  his  childish 
mind  familiar  with  the  heroes  of  the  old  Celtic  Sagas, 
with  the  daring  exploits  of  the  Viking  rovers  and  High- 
land chieftains.  It  was  she  who  sowed  the  seeds  in  his 
mind  of  much  that  he  afterward  retold  under  the  pseu- 
donym of  Fiona  Macleod. 

There  are  two  stories  of  his  childhood  I  have  heard 
him  tell,  which  seem  to  me  to  show  that  from  earliest 
years  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  his  markedly  dual 
nature  existed  and  swayed  him.  From  babyhood  his 
mind  had  been  filled  with  stories  of  old  heroic  times^ 
and  in  his  play  he  delighted  in  being  the  adventurous 
warrior  or  marauding  Viking.  In  the  gray,  inclement 
days  of  winter  when  he  was  shut  up  in  his  nursery  away 
from  the  green  life  in  the  garden  and  the  busy  wee  birds 
in  the  trees,  he  was  thrown  on  the  resources  of  his  imag- 
ination to  fill  the  long  hours.  One  snowy  day,  when  he 
was  five  years  old,  and  he  was  tired  of  playing  with  his 
baby  sisters,  who  could  not  sufficiently  rise  to  the  occasion 
and  play  the  distressed  damsels  to  his  deeds  of  knightly 
chivalry,  he  determined  to  sally  forth  in  search  of  ad- 


6  WILLIAM   SHARP 

venture.  He  buckled  his  sword  above  his  kilt — it  was 
afternoon  and  the  light  was  waning — stole  downstairs 
and  out  of  the  house,  hatless,  with  flying  curls,  and 
marched  down  the  street  to  lay  siege  to  the  nearest 
castle.  A  short  distance  away  stood  the  house  of  a 
friend  of  his  father,  and  upon  that  the  besieger  turned 
his  attack.  It  loomed  in  his  mind  as  the  castle  of  his 
desire.  He  strode  resolutely  up  to  the  door,  with  great 
difficulty,  on  tiptoe,  reached  the  handle  of  the  bell, 
pulled  a  long  peal,  and  then  demanded  of  the  maid  that 
she  and  all  within  should  surrender  to  him  and  deliver 
up  the  keys  of  the  castle.  The  maid  fell  in  with  his 
humour,  was  properly  frightened,  and  begged  to  be  al- 
lowed to  summon  her  mistress,  who  at  once  promised 
submission,  led  the  victor  into  her  room,  and  by  a  blaz- 
ing fire  gave  him  the  keys  in  the  form  of  much  coveted 
sweets,  held  him  in  her  lap  till  in  the  warmth  he  fell 
asleep,  rolled  him  up  in  a  blanket,  and  carried  him 
home. 

The  other  story  is  indicative  not  of  the  restless  adven- 
ture-loving side  of  him,  but  of  the  poet  dreamer. 

During  the  child's  sixth  year  his  father  had  taken  a 
house  for  the  summer  months  on  the  shores  of  Loch 
Long ;  the  great  heather-clad  hills,  peak  behind  peak,  the 
deep  waters  of  the  winding  loch,  were  a  ceaseless  delight 
to  the  boy.  But  above  all  else  there  lay  an  undefined 
attraction  in  a  little  wood,  a  little  pine  belt  nestling  on 
the  hillside  above  the  house.  It  was  an  enchanted  land  to 
him,  away  from  the  everyday  world,  where  human  beings 
never  came,  but  where  he  met  his  invisible  playmates, 
visible  to  him.  "  I  went  there  very  often,"  he  wrote 
later.  "  I  thought  that  belt  of  firs  had  a  personality 
as  individual  as  that  of  any  human  being,  a  sanctity 
not  to  be  disturbed  by  sport  or  play."  It  was  a  holy  place 
to  him.  The  sense  of  the  Infinite  touched  him  there. 
He  had  heard  of  God  in  the  church,  and  as  described 
from  the  pulpit  that  Being  was  to  him  remote  and  for- 
bidding. But  here  he  seemed  conscious  of  a  Presence  that 
was  benign,  beautiful.     He  felt  there  was  some  great 


CHILDHOOD  7 

power  (he  could  not  define  the  feeling  to  himself)  be- 
hind the  beauty  he  saw;  behind  the  wind  he  did  not  see, 
but  heard;  behind  the  wonder  of  the  sunshine  and  sun- 
set and  in  the  silences  he  loved,  that  awoke  in  him 
a  desire  to  belong  to  it.  And  so,  moved  to  express  his 
desire  in  some  way,  he  built  a  little  altar  of  stones, 
rough  stones,  put  together  under  a  swaying  pine,  and  on 
it  he  laid  white  flowers  in  offering. 

The  three  influences  that  taught  him  most  in  child- 
hood were  the  wind,  the  woods,  and  the  sea.  Water 
throughout  his  life  had  an  irresistible  charm  for  him — 
the  sea,  the  mountain-loch,  or  the  rushing  headlong 
waters  of  the  hill-burns.  To  watch  the  play  of  moving 
waters  was  an  absorbing  fascination,  and  he  has  told 
me  how  one  bright  night  he  had  crept  on  to  a  ledge  of 
wet  rocks  behind  a  hill  water-fall  and  had  lain  there  so 
that  he  might  watch  the  play  of  moonlight  through  the 
shimmering  veil  of  waters. 

"  When  I  was  a  child,"  he  wrote  later,  "  I  used  to 
throw  offerings — small  coins,  flowers,  shells,  even  a 
newly  caught  trout,  once  a  treasured  flint  arrow-head — 
into  the  sea-loch  by  which  we  lived.  My  Hebridean 
nurse  had  often  told  me  of  Shony,  a  mysterious  sea-god, 
and  I  know  I  spent  much  time  in  wasted  adoration:  a 
fearful  worship,  not  unmixed  with  disappointment  and 
some  anger.  Not  once  did  I  see  him.  I  was  frightened 
time  after  time,  but  the  sudden  cry  of  a  heron,  or  the 
snort  of  a  pollack  chasing  the  mackerel,  or  the  abrupt 
uplifting  of  a  seal's  head  became  over-familiar,  and  I 
desired  terror,  and  could  not  find  it  by  the  shore.  In- 
land, after  dusk,  there  was  always  the  mysterious  mul- 
titude of  shadow.  There,  too,  I  could  hear  the  wind  leap- 
ing and  growling.  But  by  the  shore  I  never  knew  any 
dread,  even  in  the  darkest  night.  The  sound  and  com- 
pany of  the  sea  washed  away  all  fears." 

But  the  child  was  not  a  dreamer  only.  He  was  a  high- 
spirited  little  chap,  who  loved  swimming  and  fishing 
and  climbing;  and  learned  at  an  early  age  to  handle  the 
oar  and  the  tiller,   and  to  understand  the  ways  and 


8  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

moods  of  a  sailing  boat;  afraid  of  nothing  and  ready 
for  any  adventure  that  offered. 

My  first  recollections  of  him  go  back  to  my  childhood. 
We  were  cousins;  my  father  was  his  father's  older 
brother.  My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  Eobert  Far- 
quharson,  of  Breda  and  Allargue.  In  1863  my  Uncle 
David  had  a  house  at  Blairmore  on  the  Gare-loch  for 
the  summer,  and  my  mother  took  her  children  to  the 
neighbouring  village  of  Strone,  so  that  the  cousins 
might  become  acquainted.  My  impression  of  "  Willie  " 
is  vivid:  a  merry,  mischievous  little  boy  in  his  eighth 
year,  with  bright-brown  curly  hair,  blue-gray  eyes,  and  a 
laughing  face,  and  dressed  in  a  tweed  kilt;  eager,  active 
in  his  endless  invention  of  games  and  occupations,  and 
a  veritable  despot  over  his  sisters  in  their  play.  He  in- 
terested his  London  cousins  in  showing  them  how  to  find 
crabs  and  spouting  fish,  birds'  nests,  and  brambles ;  terri- 
fied them  with  tales  of  snakes  in  the  grass  on  the  hills, 
and  of  the  ghostly  things  that  flitted  about  the  woods  at 
night.  But  his  chief  delight  was  his  punt.  A  great  part 
of  the  day  he  spent  on  and  in  the  water,  shouting  with 
delight  as  he  tossed  on  the  waves  in  the  wake  of  a 
steamer,  and  he  occasionally  startled  us  by  being  appar- 
ently capsized  into  the  water,  disappearing  from  sight, 
and  then  clambering  into  the  punt  dripping  and  happy. 
But  I  remember  that  with  all  his  love  of  fun  and  teasing^ 
he  seemed  to  feel  himself  different  from  the  other  chil- 
dren of  his  age,  and  would  fly  off  alone  to  the  hillside  or 
to  the  woods  to  his  many  friends  among  the  birds  and 
the  squirrels  and  the  rabbits,  with  whose  ways  and  hab- 
itations he  seemed  so  familiar. 

About  the  dream  and  vision  side  of  his  life  he  learned 
early  to  be  silent.  He  soon  realised  that  his  play- 
mates understood  nothing  of  the  confused  memories  of 
previous  lives  that  haunted  him,  and  from  which  he 
drew  materials  to  weave  into  stories  for  his  school-fel- 
lows in  the  dormitory  at  nights.  To  his  surprise  he 
found  they  saw  none  of  the  denizens  of  the  other  worlds 
— tree  spirits  and  nature  spirits,  great  and  small — so 


CHELDHOOD  9 

familiar  to  him,  and  who  he  imagined  must  be  as  obvious 
to  others  as  to  himself.  He  could  say  about  them  as 
Lafcadio  Heam  said  about  ghosts  and  goblins,  that  he 
believed  in  them  for  the  best  of  possible  reasons,  be- 
cause he  saw  them  day  and  night. 

He  found,  as  have  other  imaginative  psychic  children, 
that  he  had  an  inner  life,  a  curious  power  of  vision  un- 
shared by  any  one  about  him;  so  that  what  he  related 
was  usually  discredited.  But  the  psychic  side  of  his 
nature  was  too  intimately  a  part  of  himself  to  be  killed 
by  misunderstanding.  He  learned  early  to  shut  it  away 
— keep  it  as  a  thing  apart — a  mystery  of  his  own,  a 
mystery  to  himself.  This  secrecy  had  two  direct  re- 
sults: he  needed  from  time  to  time  to  get  away  alone, 
from  other  people,  so  as  again  and  again  to  get  into 
touch  with  "  the  Green  Life,"  as  he  called  it,  for  spir- 
itual refreshment;  and  it  developed  in  him  a  love  not 
only  of  mystery  for  its  own  sake,  but  of  mystification 
also  that  became  a  marked  characteristic,  and  eventu- 
ally was  one  of  the  factors  which  in  his  literary  work 
led  to  the  adoption  of  the  pseudonym. 

Once  only,  as  far  as  I  know,  in  the  short  psychic  tale 
called  "  The  Four  Winds  of  the  Spirit,"  did  he,  in  his 
writings,  make  any  reference  to  his  invisible  playmates. 
I  have  often  heard  him  speak  of  a  beautiful,  gentle 
white  Lady  of  the  Woods,  about  whom  he  once  wrote 
in  a  letter:  "For  I,  too,  have  my  dream,  my  mem- 
ory of  one  whom  as  a  child  I  called  Star-Eyes,  and  whom 
later  I  called  ^  Baumorair-na-mara,'  the  Lady  of  the 
Sea,  and  whom  at  least  I  knew  to  be  no  other  than  the 
woman  who  is  in  the  heart  of  women.  I  was  not  more 
than  seven  when  one  day,  by  a  well,  near  a  sea-loch  in 
Argyll,  just  as  I  was  stooping  to  drink,  my  glancing  eyes 
lit  on  a  tall  woman  standing  among  a  mist  of  wild  hya- 
cinths under  three  great  sycamores.  I  stood,  looking, 
as  a  fawn  looks,  wide-eyed,  unafraid.  She  did  not  speak, 
but  she  smiled,  and  because  of  the  love  and  beauty  in 
her  eyes  I  ran  to  her.  She  stooped  and  lifted  blueness 
out  of  the  flowers,  as  one  might  lift  foam  out  of  a  pool,^ 


10  WILLIAM   SHARP 

and  I  thought  she  threw  it  over  me.  When  I  was  found 
lying  among  the  hyacinths  dazed,  and,  as  was  thought, 
ill,  I  asked  eagerly  after  the  lady  in  white,  and  with 
hair  all  shiny-gold  like  buttercups,  but  when  I  found  I 
was  laughed  at,  or  at  last,  when  I  passionately  persisted, 
was  told  I  was  sun-dazed  and  had  been  dreaming,  I  said 
no  more — but  I  did  not  forget." 

This  boy  dreamer  began  his  education  at  home  under 
a  governess,  and  of  those  early  days  I  know  little  ex- 
cept that  he  was  tractable,  easily  taught,  and  sunny- 
natured. 

He  has  given  an  account  of  his  first  experiences  at 
school  in  a  paper,  "  In  the  Days  of  my  Youth,"  which 
he  was  asked  to  contribute  to  M.  A.  P. 

"  The  first  tragedy  in  my  life  was  when  I  was  cap- 
tured for  the  sacrifice  of  school.  At  least  to  me  it 
seemed  no  less  than  a  somewhat  brutal  and  certainly 
tyrannical  capture,  and  my  heart  sank  when,  at  the  age 
of  eight  (I  did  not  know  how  fortunate  I  was  to  have 
escaped  the  needless  bondage  of  early  schooling  till  I 
was  eight  years  old),  I  was  dispatched  to  what  was  then 
one  of  the  chief  boarding-schools  in  Scotland,  Blair 
Lodge,  in  Polmont  Woods,  between  Falkirk  and  Lin- 
lithgow. It  was  beautifully  situated,  and  though  I  then 
thought  the  woods  were  forests  and  the  Forth  and  Clyde 
canal  a  mighty  stream,  I  was  glad  some  years  ago,  on 
revisiting  the  spot,  to  find  that  my  boyish  memories 
were  by  no  means  so  exaggerated  as  I  feared.  I  am 
afraid  I  was  much  more  of  a  credit  to  my  shepherd  and 
fisher  and  gipsy,  friends  than  to  my  parents  or  school- 
masters. 

"  On  the  very  day  of  my  arrival  a  rebellion  had  broken 
out,  and  by  natural  instinct  I  was,  like  the  Irishman 
the  moment  he  arrived  in  America,  '  agin  the  Govern- 
ment.' I  remember  the  rapture  with  which  I  evaded  a 
master's  pursuing  grip,  and  was  hauled  in  at  a  window 
by  exultant  rebels.  In  that  temporary  haven  the  same 
afternoon  I  insulted  a  big  boy,  whose  peculiar  physiog- 
nomy had  amazed  me  to  delighted  but  impolite  laugh- 


CHILDHOOD  11 

ter,  and  forthwith  experienced  my  first  school  thrash- 
ing. Later  in  the  day  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  coming 
out  victor  in  an  equal  combat  with  the  heir  of  an 
Indian  big-wig,  whom,  with  too  ready  familiarity,  I 
had  addressed  as  '  Curry.'  As  I  was  a  rather  delicate 
and  sensitive  child,  this  was  not  a  bad  beginning,  and 
I  recollect  my  exhilaration  (despite  aching  bones  and 
smarting  spots)  in  the  thought  that  'school'  prom- 
ised to  be  a  more  lively  experience  than  I  had  an- 
ticipated. 

"  I  ran  away  three  times,  and  I  doubt  if  I  learned 
more  indoors  than  I  did  on  these  occasions  and  in  my 
many  allowed  and  stolen  outings.  The  first  flight  for 
freedom  was  an  ignominious  failure.  The  second  occa- 
sion two  of  us  were  Screaming  Eagle  and  Sitting  Bull, 
and  we  had  a  smothered  fire  o'  nights  and  ample  pro- 
vender (legally  and  illegally  procured),  and  we  might 
have  become  habitual  woodlanders  had  I  not  ventured  to 
a  village  and  rolled  downhill  before  me  a  large  circular 
cheese,  for  which,  alas!  I  now  blush  to  say,  I  forgot  to 
pay  or  even  to  leave  my  name  and  address.  That  cheese 
was  our  undoing.  The  third  time  was  nearly  success- 
ful, and  but  for  a  gale  my  life,  in  all  probability,  would 
have  had  an  altogether  different  colour  and  accent.  We 
reached  the  port  of  Grangemouth,  and  were  successful 
in  our  plot  to  hide  ourselves  as  stowaways.  We  slept 
that  night  amid  smells,  rats,  cockroaches,  and  a  mys- 
terious congregation  of  ballast  and  cargo,  hoping  to 
wake  to  the  sound  of  waves.  Alas!  a  storm  swept  the 
Forth  from  west  to  the  east.  The  gale  lasted  close  on 
three  days.  On  the  morning  of  the  third,  three  pale 
and  wretched  starvelings  were  ignominiously  packed 
back  to  Blair  Lodge,  where  the  admiration  of  comrades 
did  not  make  up  for  punishment  fare  and  a  liberal  flog- 
ging. 

"A  fourth  attempt,  however,  proved  successful, 
though  differently  for  each  of  us.  One  of  the  three,  a 
rotund,  squirrel-eyed  boy,  named  Robinson,  was  shipped 
off  as  an  apprentice  in  an  Indiaman.    A  few  years  later 


12  WILLIAM   SHARP 

he  went  to  his  dreamed-of  South  Seas,  was  killed  in  a 
squabble  with  hostile  islanders,  and,  as  was  afterw^ard 
discovered,  afforded  a  feast  (I  am  sure  a  succulent  one) 
to  his  captors.  The  second  of  the  three  is  now  a  dean 
in  the  Anglican  Church.  I  have  never  met  him,  but  once 
at  a  big  gathering  I  saw  the  would-be  pirate  in  clerical 
garb,  with  a  protuberant  front,  and  bald.  I  think  Rob- 
inson had  the  better  luck.  As  for  the  third  of  the  three, 
he  has  certainly  had  his  fill  of  wandering,  if  he  has 
never  encountered  cannibals  and  if  he  is  neither  a  dean 
nor  bald." 

When  their  son  was  twelve  years  old,  William's  parents 
left  Paisley  and  took  a  house  in  Glasgow  (India  Street), 
and  he  was  sent  as  a  day  scholar  to  the  Glasgow  Academy. 
In  his  sixteenth  year  he  was  laid  low  with  a  severe 
attack  of  typhoid  fever.  It  was  to  that  summer  during 
the  long  months  of  convalescence  in  the  West  that  many 
of  his  memories  of  Seumas  Macleod  belong.  Of  this 
old  fisherman  he  wrote :  "  When  I  was  sixteen  I  was  on 
a  remote  island  where  he  lived,  and  on  the  morrow  of 
my  visit  I  came  at  sunrise  upon  the  old  man  standing 
looking  seaward  with  his  bonnet  removed  from  his  long 
white  locks;  and  upon  my  speaking  to  Seumas  (when  I 
saw  he  was  not  'at  his  prayers')  was  answered,  in 
Gaelic  of  course,  '  Every  morning  like  this  I  take  my 
hat  off  to  the  beauty  of  the  world.'  Although  I  was  sent 
to  the  Academy  at  Glasgow,  and  afterward  to  the  Uni- 
versity, I  spent  much  of  each  year  in  boating,  sailing, 
hill-climbing,  wandering,  owing  to  the  unusual  freedom 
allowed  to  me  during  our  summer  residence  in  the  coun- 
try and  during  the  other  vacations.  From  fifteen  to 
eighteen  I  sailed  up  every  loch,  fjord,  and  inlet  in  the 
Western  Highlands  and  islands,  from  Arran  and  Colon- 
say  to  Skye  and  the  Northern  Hebrides,  from  the  Ehinns 
of  Galloway  to  the  Ord  of  Sutherland.  Wherever  I  went 
I  eagerly  associated  myself  with  fishermen,  sailors, 
shepherds,  gamekeepers,  poachers,  gipsies,  wandering 
pipers,  and  other  musicians."  In  this  way  he  made 
many  friends,  especially  among  the  fishermen  and  shep- 


CHILDHOOD  13 

herds,  stayed  with  them  in  their  houses,  and,  'having 
the  Gaelic,'  talked  with  them,  gained  their  confidence, 
and  listened  to  tales  told  by  old  men,  and  old  mothers 
by  the  fireside  during  the  long  twilight  evenings,  or  in 
the  herring-boats  at  night. 

"  At  eighteen  I  '  took  to  the  heather,'  as  we  say  in  the 
north,  for  a  prolonged  period.  .  .  ."  Up  the  Gare-loch, 
close  to  Ardentinny,  there  was  a  point  of  waste  land 
running  into  the  water,  frequently  used  as  camping 
ground  by  roving  tinkers  and  gipsies.  Many  a  time  he 
sailed  there  in  his  little  boat  to  get  in  touch  with  these 
wandering  folk.  One  summer  he  found  there  an  encamp- 
ment of  true  gipsies,  who  had  come  over  from  mid- 
Europe,  a  fine,  swarthy,  picturesque  race.  The  appeal 
was  irresistible,  strengthened  by  the  attraction  of  a 
beautiful  gipsy  girl.  He  made  friends  with  the  tribe, 
and  persuaded  the  'king'  to  let  him  join  them;  and  so 
he  became  '  star-brother '  and  '  sun-brother '  to  them, 
and  wandered  with  them  over  many  hills  and  straths  of 
the  West  Highlands.  To  him,  who  at  all  times  hated  the 
restrictions  and  limitations  of  conventional  life,  to 
whom  romance  was  a  necessity,  this  free  life  '  on  the 
heather '  was  the  realisation  of  many  dreams.  In  those 
few  months  he  learned  diverse  things;  much  wood-lore, 
bird-lore,  how  to  know  the  ways  of  the  wind,  and  to  use 
the  stars  as  compass.  I  do  not  know  exactly  how  long  he 
was  with  the  camp ;  two  months,  perhaps,  or  three.  For 
to  him  they  were  so  full  of  wonder,  so  vivid,  that  in  later 
life,  when  he  spoke  of  them,  he  lost  all  count  of  time,  and 
on  looking  back  to  those  days,  packed  with  new  and  keen 
experiences  so  wholly  in  keeping  with  his  temperament, 
weeks  seemed  as  months,  and  he  ceased  to  realise  that  the 
experience  was  compressed  into  one  short  summer.  He 
never  wove  these  memories  into  a  sequent  romance, 
though  in  later  time  he  thought  of  so  doing.  For  one 
thing,  the  present  was  the  absorbing  actuality  to  him, 
and  the  future  a  dream  to  realise;  whether  in  life  or  in 
work  the  past  was  past,  and  he  preferred  to  project  him- 
self toward  the  future  and  what  it  miarht  have  in  store 


14  WILLIAM   SHARP 

for  him.  But  traces  of  the  influence  of  those  gipsy  days 
are  to  be  seen  in  Children  of  To-morrow,  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Annaik  in  Green  Fire,  and  in  the  greater  part  of 
the  story  of  "  The  Gipsy  Christ,"  published  later  in  the 
collection  of  short  stories  entitled  Madge  o'  the  Pool.  He 
also  had  projected  a  romance  to  be  called  The  Gipsy 
Trail,  but  it  was  never  even  begun. 

One  thing,  however,  I  know  for  certain,  that  the  tru- 
ant's parents  were  greatly  concerned  over  his  disap- 
pearance. After  considerable  trouble  the  fugitive  was 
recaptured.  Not  long  after  he  was  put  into  a  lawyer's 
office,  ostensibly  to  teach  him  business  habits,  but  also 
the  better  to  chain  him  to  work,  to  the  accepted  conven- 
tions of  life,  and  to  remove  him  out  of  the  way  of  dan- 
gerous temptations  offered  by  the  freer  College  life  with 
its  long  vacations. 

"  Not  long  after  my  return  to  civilisation,  at  my 
parent's  urgent  request,  I  not  only  resumed  my  classes 
at  the  University,  but  entered  a  lawyer's  office  in  Glas- 
gow (on  very  easy  conditions,  hardly  suitable  for  a  pro- 
fessional career),  so  as  to  learn  something  of  the  law. 
I  learned  much  more,  in  a  less  agreeable  fashion,  when 
I  spent  my  first  years  in  London  and  understood  the 
pains  and  penalties  of  impecuniosity !  The  only  outside 
influence  which  had  strongly  perturbed  my  boyhood  was 
the  outbreak  of  the  Franco-German  War,  and  I  recall 
the  eager  excitement  with  which  I  followed  the  daily 
news,  my  exultation  when  the  French  were  defeated, 
my  delight  when  the  Prussians  won  a  great  victory. 
A  few  years  later  I  would  have  '  sided '  differently, 
but  boys  naturally  regarded  the  French  as  hereditary 
foes." 

In  the  autumn  of  1871  he  had  been  enrolled  as  student 
at  the  Glasgow  University,  and  he  attended  the  sessions 
of  1871-72  and  1872-73  during  the  Lord  Rectorship  of 
The  Right  Honourable  B.  Disraeli.  He  did  not  remain 
long  enough  at  the  university  to  take  his  degree.  Yet  he 
worked  well,  and  was  an  attentive  scholar.  Naturally, 
English  Literature  was  the  subject  that  attracted  him 


CHILDHOOD  15 

specially;  in  that  class  he  was  under  Prof.  John  Nichol, 
whose  valued  friendship  he  retained  for  many  years. 
At  the  end  of  his  second  session  he  was  one  of  three 
students  who  were  found  '  worthy  of  special  commenda- 
tion.' The  chief  benefit  to  him  of  his  undergraduate 
days  was  the  access  it  gave  him  to  the  University  Li- 
brary. There  new  worlds  of  fascinating  study  were 
opened  to  him ;  not  only  the  literature  and  philosophy  of 
other  European  countries,  but  also  the  wonderful  lit- 
eratures and  religions  of  the  East.  He  read  omnivo- 
rously;  night  after  night  he  read  far  into  the  morning 
hours  literature,  philosophy,  poetry,  mysticism,  occult- 
ism, magic,  mythology,  folk-lore.  While  on  the  one  hand 
the  immediate  result  was  to  turn  him  from  the  form  of 
Presbyterian  faith  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up,  to 
pu.t  him  in  conflict  with  all  orthodox  religious  teachings, 
it  strengthened  the  natural  tendency  of  his  mind  toward 
a  belief  in  the  unity  of  the  great  truths  underlying  all 
religions ;  and,  to  his  deep  satisfaction,  gave  him  a  sense 
of  brotherhood  with  the  acknowledged  psychics  and 
seers  of  other  lands  and  other  days.  At  last  he  found 
a  sympathetic  correspondence  with  his  thoughts  and  ex- 
periences, and  a  clew  to  their  possible  meaning  and 
value. 

In  1874,  with  a  view  to  finding  out  in  what  direction  his 
son's  capabilities  lay,  Mr.  David  Sharp  put  him  into  the 
office  of  Messrs.  Maclure  and  Hanney,  lawyers,  in  Glas- 
gow, where  he  remained  till  his  health  broke  down  and  he 
was  sent  to  Australia.  It  was  soon  evident  that  he  would 
never  be  a  shining  light  in  the  legal  profession :  his  chief 
interest  still  lay  in  his  private  studies  and  his  earliest 
efforts  in  literature.  In  order  to  find  time  for  all  he 
wished  to  do,  which  included  a  keen  interest  in  the  the- 
atre and  opera  whenever  the  chance  offered,  he  al- 
lowed himself  during  these  two  years  four  hours  only 
out  of  the  twenty-four  for  sleep;  a  procedure  which 
did  not  tend  to  strengthen  his  already  delicate  health. 
At  no  time  in  his  life  did  he  weigh  or  consider  what 
amount  of  physical  strength  he  had  at  his  disposal.    His 


16  WILLIAM  SHARP 

will  was  strong,  his  desires  were  definite ;  he  expected  his 
strength  to  be  adequate  to  his  requirements,  and  as- 
sumed it  was  so,  until,  from  time  to  time,  a  serious 
breakdown  proved  to  him  how  seriously  he  had  over- 
drawn on  his  reserve. 


CHAPTEK   II 

AUSTRALIA 

My  second  meeting  with  my  cousin  was  in  August  of 
1875,  when  he  spent  a  week  with  us  at  a  cottage  my 
mother  had  taken  at  Dunoon,  then  one  of  the  most 
charming  villages  on  the  Clyde. 

I  remember  vividly  the  impression  he  made  on  me 
when  I  saw  the  tall,  thin  figure  pass  through  our  garden 
gateway  at  sunset — he  had  come  down  by  the  evening 
steamer  from  Glasgow — and  stride  swiftly  up  the  path. 
He  was  six  feet  one  inch  in  height,  very  thin,  with 
slightly  sloping  shoulders.  He  was  good-looking,  with 
a  fair  complexion  and  high  colouring;  gray-blue  eyes, 
brown  hair  closely  cut,  a  sensitive  mouth,  and  winning 
smile.  He  looked  delicate,  but  full  of  vitality.  He  spoke 
very  rapidly,  and  when  excited  his  words  seemed  to  tum- 
ble one  over  the  other,  so  that  it  was  not  always  easy  to 
understand  him. 

In  September  my  sister  and  I  visited  our  Uncle  and 
Aunt  at  16  Eosslyn  Terrace,  Glasgow,  and  before  the 
close  of  that  month  their  son  and  I  were  secretly  plighted 
to  one  another.  Then  began  a  friendship  that  lasted  un- 
brokenly  for  thirty  years. 

It  was  then  he  confided  to  me  that  his  true  ambition 
lay  not  in  being  a  scientific  man,  as  it  was  supposed,  but 
a  poet:  that  his  desire  was  to  write  about  Mother  Na- 
ture and  her  inner  mysteries,  but  that  as  yet  he  had 
not  sufficient  mastery  of  his  art  to  be  able  to  put  his  mes- 
sage into  adequate  form.  After  much  persuasion  he 
read  to  me  several  of  his  early  attempts,  and  promised 
to  send  me  a  copy  of  whatever  he  should  write. 

We  were  very  anxious  to  meet  again  before  I  returned 
to  London,  as  we  should  of  necessity  be  separated  till 
the  following  autumn.    A  few  days  later  in  Edinburgh 

17 


18  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

came  the  desired  opportunity.  But  how  and  where  to 
meet?  No  one  must  know,  lest  our  secret  should  be  dis- 
covered— for  we  well  knew  all  our  relations  would  be 
unanimous  in  disapproval. 

Instead  of  going  to  the  Lawyer's  office  one  morning 
my  cousin  took  an  early  train  into  Edinburgh — and  I  left 
my  sister  to  make  the  necessary  excuses  for  my  absence 
at  luncheon.  But  where  to  meet?  We  knew  we  should 
run  the  risk  of  encountering  relations  and  acquaint- 
ances in  the  obvious  places  that  suggested  themselves. 
At  last  a  brilliant  idea  came  to  my  betrothed,  and  we 
spent  several  hours  in — the  secluded  Dean  Cemetery, 
and  were  not  found  out!  We  talked  and  talked — about 
his  ambitions,  his  beliefs  and  visions,  our  hopeless  pros- 
pects, the  coming  lonely  months,  my  studies — and  parted 
in  deep  dejection. 

The  immediate  outcome  of  the  day  was  a  long  poem 
of  no  less  than  fifty-seven  verses  addressed  to  me: 
"  In  Dean  Cemetery  " — a  pantheistic  dream,  as  its  au- 
thor described  it ;  and  in  a  note  to  one  of  the  verses  he 
wrote :  "  I  hold  to  the  rest  of  the  poem,  for  there  are 
spirits  everywhere.  We  are  never  alone,  though  we  are 
rarely  conscious  of  other  presences." 

The  poem  is  too  long  and  too  immature  to  quote  from. 
It  was  one  of  a  series,  never  of  course  published,  that 
he  wrote  about  this  time;  all  very  serious,  for  his  mind 
was  absorbed  in  psychic  and  metaphysical  speculation. 

And  the  reason  why  he  chose  such  serious  types  of 
poems  to  dedicate  to  the  girl  to  whom  he  was  engaged 
was  that  she  was  the  first  friend  he  had  found  who  to 
some  extent  understood  him,  understood  the  inner  hid- 
den side  of  his  nature,  sympathised  with  and  believed  in 
his  visions,  dreams,  and  aims. 

Immediately  on  my  return  to  London  he  sent  me 
three  long  poems  written  in  1873  under  the  influence  of 
Shelley — then  to  him  the  poet  of  poets.  Very  faulty  in 
their  handling,  they  are  to  me  significant,  inasmuch  as 
they  strike  the  keynote  of  all  his  subsequent  intimate 
writings.    "  To  the  Pine  Belt "  begins  with  these  lines : 


AUSTRALIA  19 

To-day  amid  the  pines  I  went 

In   a   wonderment, 

For  the  ceaseless  song 

Of  lichened  branches  long 

In  measures  free 

Said   to   me 

Strange  things  of  another  life 

Than  woodland  strife. 

In  The  Blue  Peaks  he  sings  of  the  Quest  of  the  beckon- 
ing dim  blue  hills,  of  which  he  wrote  again  many  years 
later  in  The  Divine  Adventure.  And  the  third,  "  The 
Eiver  to  KuXvy^^'  is  an  ecstatic  chant  to  Beauty: 

O  Spirit  fair 

Who  dwelleth  where 

The  heart  of  Beauty  is  enshrined. 

Wherewith  he  invokes  "  Nature,  or  Beauty,  or  God  "  to 
help  him  to  realise  the  poignant  dream  of  beauty,  which 
haunted  him  in  diverse  ways  throughout  his  life.  When 
he  sent  them  to  me  he  realised  how  youthful  and  faulty 
was  the  presentment,  and  he  wrote :  "  If  I  had  not  prom- 
ised to  send  these  poems  I  should  certainly  not  do  so 
now.  They  are  very  poor  every  way,  and  the  only  inter- 
est they  may  have  for  you  is  to  show  you  the  former 
current  of  my  thoughts — I  did  indeed  put  Beauty  in  the 
place  of  God,  and  Nature  in  that  of  his  Laws.  Now  that 
I  see  more  clearly  (and  that  is  not  saying  much),  these 
appear  trash.  Still  there  is  some  good  here  and  there. 
I  am  glad  I  have  written  them,  for  they  helped  me  to 
arrive  at  clearer  convictions.  The  verse  and  rhythm 
are  purposely  uneven  and  irregular — it  admitted  of 
easier  composition  to  write  so."  While  at  the  Univer- 
sity he  had  made  an  eager  study  of  comparative  relig- 
ions, their  ethics  and  metaphysics,  being  then  in  ac- 
tive revolt  against  the  religious  teachings  in  which  he 
had  been  brought  up.  This  mental  conflict,  this  weigh- 
ing of  metaphysical  problems,  found  expression  in  the 
first  Book  of  a  projected  Epic  on  Man,  to  be  called  Up- 
land, Woodland,  Cloudland.  "  Amid  the  Uplands  "  only 
was  finished,  and  consists  of  two  thousand  lines  in  blank 


20  WILLIAM    SHARP 

verse ;  the  leading  idea  is  fairly  suggested  in  these  lines 
from  the  Proem: 

"  And  I  have  written  in  the  love  of  God 
And  in  a  sense  of  man's  proud  destiny. 

And  I  have  striven  to  point  out  harmony, 

An  inner  harmony  in  all  things  fair, 

Flow'rs,  tree,  and  cloudlet,  wind,  and  ocean  wave, 

Wold,  hill,  and  forest,  with  the  heart  of  man, 

And  with  the  firmament  and  universe, 

And  thence  with  God.     All  things  are  part  of  Him." 

Scattered  through  the  many  pages  of  philosophic  ex- 
hortation and  speculation,  of  descriptions  of  nature, 
of  psychical  visions,  are  lines  that  are  suggestive  of  later 
development,  of  later  trend  of  thought,  and  from  them 
the  following  are  selected: 

"  There  is  in  everything  an  undertone  .  .  . 
Those  clear  in  soul  are  also  clear  in  sight, 
And  recognise  in  a  white  cascade's  flash. 
The  roar  of  mountain  torrents,  and  the  wail 
Of  multitudinous  waves  on  barren  sands, 
The  song  of  skylark  at  the  flush  of  dawn, 
A  mayfield  all  ablaze  with  king-cups  gold, 
The  clamour  musical  of  culver  wings 
Beating  the  soft  air  of  a  dewy  dusk, 
The  crescent  moon  far  voyaging  thro'  dark  skies, 
And  Sirius  throbbing  in  the  distant  south, 
A  something  deeper  than  mere  audible 
And  visible  sensations;   for  they  see 
Not  only  pulsings  of  the  Master's  breath, 
The  workings  of  inevitable  Law, 
But  also  the  influences  subordinate 
And  spirit  actors  in  life's  unseen  side. 
One  glint  of  nature  may  unlock  a  soul." 

"  Our  Evil  is  too  finite  to  disturb 
The  infinite  of  good." 

"  We  all  are  wind-harps  casemented  on  Earth, 
And  every  breath  of  God  that  falls  may  fetch 
Some  dimmest  echo  of  a  faint  refrain 
From  even  the  worst  strung  of  all  of  us. 

"  Oh,  I  have  lain  upon  a  river's  brink 
And  drank  deep,  deep  of  all  the  glory  near, 


AUSTRALIA  21 

Until  my  soul  in  unison  did  beat 

With  all  things  round  me:  I  was  at  the  root, 

The  common  root  of  life  from  which  all  flow, 

And  when  thus  far  could  enter  unto  all; 

I  look'd  upon  a  rose  and  seemed  to  grow 

A  bud  into  a  bloom,  I  watched  a  tree 

And  was  the  life  that  quicken'd  the  green  leaves, 

I  saw  the  waters  swirling  and  became 

The  law  of  their  wild  course,  and  in  the  clouds 

I  felt  my  spirit  wand'ring  over  heaven. 

I  did  identify  myself  with  aught 

That  rose  before  me,  and  communion  held. 

Death  is  not  only  change,  or  sleep;  it  is 
God's  seal  to  sanctify  the  soul's  advance." 


In  the  beginning  of  1875  he  made  various  experiments 
in  rhymed  metre,  all  equally  serious  in  subject  and  stiff 
in  handling;  but  in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  he  wrote 
several  little  songs  in  a  lighter  vein  and  happier  man- 
ner. 

The  following  year  brought  a  fresh  change  in  his  cir- 
cumstances, and  placed  him  face  to  face  with  the  serious 
questions  of  practical  means  of  living.  His  father  had 
been  in  bad  health  for  some  months,  and  he  himself  de- 
veloped disquieting  symptoms  of  chest  trouble.  I  had 
been  in  Italy  during  the  three  spring  months,  and  was 
overjoyed  on  my  return  to  hear  that  we  and  my  uncle's 
family  were  to  spend  August  at  Dunoon  in  neighbouring 
houses.  On  arriving  there  we  found  my  uncle  in  an 
alarming  condition  and  his  son  looking  extremely  deli- 
cate. Nevertheless  there  were  many  happy  days  spent 
there — and  rambling  over  the  hills,  boating  and  sailing 
on  the  lochs,  in  talking  over  our  very  vague  prospects, 
in  reading  and  discussing  his  poems.  Of  these  he  had 
several  more  to  show  me,  chief  among  them  being  an 
idyll  "  Beatrice,"  dedicated  to  me,  and  a  lyrical  drama 
"  Ariadne  in  Naxos  "  which  excited  in  me  the  greatest 
admiration  and  pride.  Toward  the  middle  of  the  month 
my  uncle's  condition  grew  hopeless,  and  on  the  20th  he 
died.  His  death  was  a  great  shock  to  his  son,  whose 
health  gave  way:  consumption  was  feared  (as  it  proved, 


22  WILLIAM   SHARP 

causelessly)  and  in  the  autumn  he  was  ordered  a  voyage 
to  Australia. 

In  September  I  was  taken  by  my  mother  to  Aberdeen- 
shire, and  thus  I  had  no  opportunity  of  seeing  William 
again,  and  the  last  thing  I  heard  of  him,  when  he  had 
left  Scotland  in  a  sailing  ship,  was  a  gloomy  prediction 
made  by  an  old  relative  to  my  mother :  "  Ah,  that  poor 
nephew  of  yours,  Willie  Sharp,  he'll  never  live  to  reach 
Australia." 

To  quote  his  own  words : 

"  So  to  Australia  I  went  by  sailing  ship,  relinquishing 
my  idea  of  becoming  a  formidable  rival  to  Swinburne 
(whose  Atalanta  in  Calydon  had  inspired  me  to  a  lyri- 
cal drama  named  Ariadne  in  Naxos),  to  Tennyson 
(whose  example  I  had  deigned  to  accept  for  an  idyll 
called  'Beatrice'),  and  to  the  author  of  Festus,  whose 
example  was  responsible  for  a  meditative  epic  named 
*  Amid  the  Uplands.'  Alas !  '  subsequent  events  '  make 
it  unlikely  that  these  masterpieces  will  ever  see  the 
light. 

"  In  Australia  I  had  friends  with  whom  I  stayed,  and 
from  them  I  joined  an  eminent  colonist  whose  tragic 
end  cast  a  cloud  over  a  notable  career  as  an  explorer. 
With  him  I  saw  much  of  the  then  wild  country  in  Gipps- 
land,  beyond  the  Buffalo  and  Bogong  Mountains,  across 
the  Murray  Eiver  into  the  desert  region  of  lower  New 
South  Wales." 

So  to  Australia  he  sailed,  not  only  in  search  of  health 
but  to  look  about  and  see  if  he  would  care  to  settle  there, 
supposing  that  he  should  find  work  that  he  could  do,  as 
it  was  now  imjoerative  he  should  provide  for  his  future. 
In  The  Sport  of  Chance,  and  in  an  article  "  Through 
Bush  and  Fern,"  he  has  given  graphic  descriptions  of  the 
memorable  ride  which  afforded  the  newcomer  a  unique 
opportunity  of  seeing  something  of  the  interior  of  the 
colony;  and  from  these  the  following  selections  are 
taken : 

"  It  was  the  full  tide  of  summer  when  my  friend  and  I 
started  one  morning  in  continuance  of  our  ride  south 


AUSTRALIA  23 

through  the  ranges  that  rise  and  swell  and  slope  away 
in  mighty  hollows,  sweeping  like  immense  green  waves 
around  the  bases  of  those  lofty  Australian  Alps,  of  which 
Mounts  Holtham,  Kosciusko,  and  Feathertop  are  the 
chief  glories.  Although  early,  the  heat  of  the  sun  was  al- 
ready very  powerful;  but  its  effect  was  more  bracing 
than  enervating,  owing  to  the  clearness  and  dryness  of 
the  atmosphere.  .  .  .  Across  the  rugged  mountains  we 
rode,  by  difficult  passes  over  desolate  plains,  along 
sweeping  watercourses  marked  by  the  long  funeral  pro- 
cession of  lofty  blue-gums,  and  mournful,  stringy  bark. 
Day  by  day  we  saw  the  sun  rise  above  the  hills.  We 
slept,  while  our  horses  stood  by  panting  with  heat,  under 
what  shade  we  could  get,  and  arose  when  the  sky  had 
lost  its  look  of  molten  copper  and  had  taken  on  once 
more  its  intense  ultramarine.  At  night  as  we  rode 
across  the  plains  we  heard  the  howling  of  the  wild  dogs 
as  they  scoured  afar  oif ,  or  sent  flying  in  all  directions 
startled  kangaroos,  which  leaped  across  the  moonlit 
wastes  like  ghosts  of  strange  creatures  in  pre-Adamite 
times.  ...  At  last  we  had  come  to  Albury  to  join  a 
friend  who  promised  us  some  swan  shooting,  and  it 
thus  came  about  that  early  one  morning,  about  an  hour 
before  dawn,  we  found  ourselves  crouching  under  the 
shelter  of  some  wattles  growing  close  to  the  Murray 
lagoons.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  save  the  monot- 
onous swish  of  the  river  as  it  swept  slowly  onward,  ex- 
cept when  at  rare  intervals  some  restless  parrot  or 
cockatoo  made  a  transient  disturbance  somewhere  in  the 
forest.  The  stillness,  the  semi-darkness,  the  sound  of 
the  rushing  water,  our  expectancy,  all  rendered  the  hour 
one  of  mingled  solemnity  and  excited  tension;  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  at  least  one  of  our  small  party 
repressed  some  sound  when  within  a  few  feet  a  venom- 
ous-looking snake  wriggled  away  with  a  faint  hiss  from 
a  bunch  of  knotted  grass." 

At  this  juncture,  unfortunately  the  writer  was  car- 
ried away  by  his  interest  in  snakes  ...  in  rare  water 
birds  and  "  Murray-cod,"  and  quite  forgot  to  finish  his 


24  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

account  of  the  swan  shooting.  It  is  obviously  unneces- 
sary to  explain  that  shooting,  as  a  sport,  had  no  attrac- 
tion for  him;  whereas  observing  birds  and  bats,  fish, 
etc.,  was  always  a  preoccupying  interest. 

"  What  a  day  of  intense  heat  followed  that  morning ! 
When  at  last  we  reached  our  previous  night's  shelter,  a 
shepherd  station  known  as  Bidgee  Bend,  we  were  nearly 
exhausted. 

"  While  resting  on  a  rough  shake-down  and  lazily  smok- 
ing, my  eye  happened  to  glance  at  my  saddle,  which  was 
lying  close  at  hand,  and  right  in  the  midst  thereof  I  saw 
a  large  scorpion  with  its  tail  raised  in  that  way  which 
is  known  to  signify  a  vicious  state  of  mind.  Hearing  my 
exclamation,  the  stockman  looked  round,  and  without 
a.  word  reached  for  a  long-lashed  whip,  and  with  a  blow 
of  the  shaft  put  an  end  to  the  possibly  dangerous  inten- 
tions of  our  unwelcome  visitor.  Of  an  extremely  laconic 
nature,  our  shepherd  friend  never  uttered  a  word  he  felt 
to  be  unnecessary,  and  when,  after  having  asked  him  if 
he  saw  scorpions  frequently  hereabouts,  and  received  a 
monosyllabic  reply  in  the  affirmative,  I  added,  '  Any 
other  kind  of  vermin?'  he  muttered  sleepily,  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  '  Bull-dog  ants,  hairy  spiders,  centi- 
pedes, bugs.' " 

On  his  return  to  Melbourne  the  traveller  realised  that 
there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of  finding  work.  He 
had  made  inquiries  in  every  available  direction,  but  he 
did  not  make  any  great  effort.  He  realised  that  life  in 
the  New  World,  under  such  conditions  as  would  be  open 
to  him,  would  be  very  distasteful;  and  greatly  as  he 
had  enjoyed  the  few  months'  sojourn  in  Australia,  owing 
chiefly  to  Mr.  Turner's  friendliness,  he  had  little  regret 
when  he  went  on  board  the  Loch  Tay  for  his  homeward 
faring. 

The  return  voyage,  too,  was  eventful.  The  route  lay 
round  Cape  Horn,  and  the  ship  was  driven  by  contrary- 
winds  down  into  the  Antarctic  seas,  where  it  encoun- 
tered bitterly  cold  weather,  and  came  close  to  drifting 
icebergs. 


AUSTRALIA  25 

The  Loch  Tay  reached  England  in  June,  and  the  wan- 
derer came  direct  to  my  mother's  house  in  London  and 
stayed  with  us  there  for  several  weeks.  This  first 
visit  to  London  was  uneventful,  but  full  of  quiet  hap- 
piness for  us  both.  He  had,  of  course,  much  to  see, 
and  it  was  a  delight  to  me  to  be  his  cicerone.  It  was, 
moreover,  a  much  wished-for  opportunity  to  introduce 
him  to  my  special  friends,  while  my  mother  made  him 
known  to  whosoever  she  thought  would  be  influential  in 
helping  her  nephew  to  find  some  suitable  post  or  occu- 
pation. 

I  had  three  friends  in  particular  I  wanted  him  to 
know;  two  were  then  ia  London;  but  the  third,  John 
Elder,  was  in  New  Zealand,  and  did  not  return  till  the  fol- 
lowing year.  His  sister,  however,  Miss  Adelaide  Elder, 
was  LQ  town.  She  and  my  sister  had  been  my  confidants 
during  the  preceding  two  years  in  the  matter  of  our 
engagement,  and  I  was  naturally  most  wishful  that  she 
and  my  cousin  should  meet.  We  had  known  each  other 
from  childhood — our  parents  were  old  friends — and  we 
had  read  and  studied  together,  often  in  a  quiet  part  of 
Kensington  Gardens  reading  Tennyson,  Carlyle,  John 
Stuart  Mill,  Fichte,  etc.  The  other  friend  was  Miss 
Alison — afterward  Mrs.  Mona  Caird — the  novelist  and 
essay  writer.  We  three  were  friends  with  many  tastes 
and  interests  in  common,  not  the  least  being  all  questions 
relating  to  women.  To  my  great  satisfaction  out  of  the 
meeting  with  my  cousin  there  grew  deeply  attached 
friendships  that  lasted  throughout  his  life. 

In  spite  of  all  our  efforts  no  work  was  found  for  the 
wanderer;  he  spent  the  remainder  of  the  year  in  Scot- 
land and  devoted  his  time  to  writing.  I  have  about  two 
letters  written  to  me  about  that  time.  In  one,  dated  Au- 
gust 21st  from  Braemar,  he  says : 

"I  feel  another  self  within  me  now  more  than  ever; 
it  is  as  if  I  were  possessed  by  a  spirit  who  must  speak 
out.  ...  I  am  in  no  hurry  to  rush  into  print;  I  do  not 
wish  to  write  publicly  until  I  can  do  so  properly.  It 
would  be  a  great  mistake  to  embody  my  message  in  such 


26  WILLIAM    SHARP 

a  poem  as  '  Uplands/  although  a  fifty  times  better  poem 
than  that  is.  People  won't  be  preached  to.  Truth  can 
be  inculcated  far  better  by  inference,  by  suggestion.  .  .  . 
I  am  glad  to  see  by  your  note  you  are  in  good  spirits. 
I  also  now  look  on  things  in  a  different  light;  but,  un- 
fortunately, Lill,  we  poor  mortals  are  more  apt  to  be 
swayed  by  moods  than  by  circumstances,  and  look  on 
things  through  the  mist  of  these  moods." 

In  the  other  letter  he  wrote : 

"  I  am  too  worried  about  various  things  to  settle  to 
any  kind  of  literary  work  in  the  meantime.  The  weather 
has  been  wretchedly  wet,  and  the  cold  is  intense.  I 
do  trust  I  shall  get  away  from  Scotland  before  the  win- 
ter sets  in,  as  I  am  much  less  able  to  stand  it  than  I 
thought  I  was.  Even  with  the  strong  air  up  here  I  can't 
walk  any  distance  without  being  much  the  worse  for  it." 

One  cause  of  the  "  worry  "  was  a  candid  letter  of  criti- 
cism he  had  received  from  Robert  Buchanan,  whose 
The  Book  of  Orm  had  been  one  of  his  great  favourites 
among  books  of  modern  verse.  Its  fine  mysticism  ap- 
pealed to  him,  and  to  the  author  he  sent  a  number  of 
his  poems,  and  asked  for  a  criticism  and  hoping  for  a 
favourable  one.  But,  alas,  when  it  came  it  was  uncom- 
promisingly the  reverse;  and  the  older  poet  strongly 
advised  the  young  aspirant  not  to  dream  of  literature 
as  a  career.  Many  years  ago,  he  explained,  when  he 
was  struggling  in  London  he  tried  in  vain  to  get  certain 
employment  of  the  kind,  but  he  had  never  succeeded  and 
had  had  "  to  buffet  the  sharp  sea  of  journalism."  It  was 
a  great  blow.  It  produced  a  deep  and  prolonged  depres- 
sion, and  it  required  all  my  powers  of  persuasion  and 
reiterated  belief  in  his  possibilities  to  enable  him  to  pull 
himself  together  and  try  again. 

His  hope  was  unfulfilled  and  he  remained  in  Scotland 
throughout  the  winter,  at  Moffat,  where  his  mother  had 
taken  a  house.  Despite  the  cold  and  the  delay,  he  en- 
joyed the  long  rambles  over  the  snow-clad  hills  and  in 
the  fir  woods;  and  wrote  a  number  of  poems  afterward 
published  in  The  Human  Inheritance;  and  so  vivid  were 


AUSTRALIA  27 

certain  effects  of  sunglow  in  the  winter  woods,  that  he 
described  them  in  one  of  his  last  writings  included  in 
Where  the  Forest  Murmurs. 

But  for  the  most  part  his  mood  was  one  of  depres- 
sion; under  it  he  wrote  the  following  sonnet: 

THE    GATE    OF    DEATH 

I  wonder  if  the  soul  upon  that  day 

When  Death's  gate  opens  to  it,  will  with  gaze 

Kapt  and  bewilder'd  tremble  at  the  rays 
Of  God's  great  glory — or  if  wild  dismay 
Will  stun  it  with  blank  horror,  while  away 

It  watches  the  unguided  world  blaze 

With  speed  relentless  down  the  flowing  ways 
That  end  in  nothing;  while  far  off  a  gray 
Wan  shadow  trembles  ere  it  fades  for  aye? 

Or  if,  half  blinded  still  with  death's  amaze. 
Dimly  and  faintly  it  will  somewhat  see, 

Some  Shadow  become  substance  and  unroll 
Until  there  looms  one  vast  Humanity, 

One  awful,  mighty,  and  resistless  Whole? 

In  the  late  Spring  of  1878  William  Sharp  settled  in 
London.  An  opening  had  been  found  for  him  in  the 
City  of  Melbourne  Bank  by  Mr.  Alexander  Elder,  the 
father  of  our  friends,  just  in  time  to  prevent  him  from 
carrying  out  his  decision  to  go  as  a  volunteer  in  the 
Turkish  army  during  its  conflict  with  Russia. 

Neither  the  work  nor  the  prospects  offered  were  invit- 
ing, but  he  was  thankful  to  have  a  chance  of  trying  his 
fortunes  in  London.  He  bound  himself  as  clerk  in  the 
Bank  for  three  years,  on  a  salary  of  £80,  <£90,  and  <£100. 
As  owing  to  the  long  idleness  he  had  unavoidable  debts 
to  pay  off,  he  determined  to  try  what  he  could  do  with 
his  pen  to  add  to  the  slender  income.  He  took  a  room 
in  19  Albert  Street,  Regent's  Park,  whence  he  could 
walk  to  the  Bank,  yet  sleep  not  far  away  from  birds 
and  trees;  and  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with 
a  kindly,  competent  landlady.  Now  began  a  long,  ardu- 
ous struggle  for  the  means  of  livelihood,  for  health, 
for  a  place  among  the  literary  writers  of  his  day — 
a  "  schooling  in  the  pains  and  impecuniosities  of  life  " 


28  WILLIAM    SHARP 

from  whieli  lie  learned  so  much.  He  had  no  influence 
to  help  him;  and  no  friends  other  than  those  he  had 
met  at  my  mother's  house.  Each  week-end  he  came 
to  72  Inveniess  Terrace  and  stayed  with  us  from  Sat- 
urday till  Monday.  A  serious  difficulty  now  presented 
itself,  one  which  threatened  us  both  with  temporary  dis- 
aster. As  long  as  my  betrothed  was  in  Scotland  it  was 
quite  possible  to  preserve  the  secret  of  our  engagement. 
Now  that  he  was  in  London  and  a  constant  visitor  at  our 
house  it  was  not  so  simple  a  matter.  Moreover,  to  me 
it  did  not  seem  honourable  toward  my  mother,  and  I 
wished  her  to  know.  He,  however,  was  not  of  my  opin- 
ion ;  not  only  would  he  lose  much — we  both  believed  we 
could  not  win  my  mother  to  our  way  of  thinking — if 
he  were  forbidden  to  come  to  the  house,  but  he  also 
delighted  in  the  very  fact  of  the  secrecy,  of  the  mystery, 
and,  indeed,  mystification,  which  I  did  not  then  realise 
was  a  marked  characteristic  of  his  nature.  For  me  such 
secrecy  had  no  charm,  but  was  fraught  with  difficulties 
and  inconveniences.  Many  were  our  discussions,  and  at 
last  he  yielded  an  unwilling  consent. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  late  summer  a  dejected 
couple  wandered  about  in  Kensington  Gardens,  under 
the  old  trees,  trying  to  forecast  what  seemed  a  mourn- 
ful future.  However,  our  fears  were  groundless.  My 
mother,  though  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  point  out  to  us  the 
hopelessness  and  foolishness  of  the  engagement  from  a 
worldly  point  of  view,  her  strong  objection  to  it  on  the 
score  of  our  cousinship,  his  delicacy  and  lack  of  pros- 
pects, nevertheless  realised  the  uselessness  of  opposing 
her  daughter's  decision,  accepted  the  inevitable,  and  from 
that  moment  treated  her  nephew  as  her  son. 

Two  months  later  he  wrote  to  me: 

26:  8:  78. 

.  .  .  Thanks  for  your  welcome  note  which  I  received 
a  little  ago.  I,  too,  like  you,  was  sitting  at  my  open  win- 
dow last  night  (or  rather  this  morning)  with  the  stars 
for  my  companions :  and  I,  too,  took  comfort  from  them 


AUSTRALIA  29 

and  felt  the  peace  hidden  in  their  silent  depths.  I  know 
of  nothing  that  soothes  the  spirit  more  than  looking  on 
those  awful  skies  at  midnight.  Some  of  our  aspirations 
seem  to  have  burnt  into  life  there,  and,  tangled  in  some 
glory  of  starlight,  to  shine  down  upon  us  with  beckoning 
hands.  ...  I  have  told  you  before  how  that  music,  a 
beautiful  line  of  poetry,  and  other  cherished  things  of 
art  so  often  bring  you  into  close  communion  with  my- 
self. But  there  is  one  thing  that  does  it  infallibly  and 
more  than  anything  else:  trees  on  a  horizon,  whether 
plain  or  upland,  standing  against  a  cloudless  blue  sky — 
more  especially  when  there  is  a  soft  blue  haze  dimly  pal- 
pitating between.  Strange,  is  it  not?  I  only  half  indefi- 
nitely myself  know  the  cause  of  it.  One  cause  certainly 
is  the  sense  of  music  there  is  in  that  aspect — possibly 
also  the  fairness  of  an  association  so  sympathetic  with 
some  gracious  memory  of  the  past. 

P.  S. — By-the-bye,  have  you  noticed  that  my  "  Noc- 
turne "  is  in  the  July  number  of  Good  Words'^. 

This  poem  was  of  special  interest  to  me  because  it 
had  been  written  while  I  had  played  to  him  on  the  piano 
one  evening.  It  was  in  the  summer  of  1878  also  that  he 
just  met  Mr.  John  Elder,  whom  I  had  known  from  child- 
hood. John  was  a  graduate  of  Cambridge,  a  thinker 
and  man  of  fine  tastes,  and  his  new  friend  found  a  great 
stimulus  in  the  keen  mind  of  the  older  man.  Owing  to 
delicacy  he  could  be  but  little  in  England,  and  till  his 
death  in  1883  the  two  men  corresponded  regularly  with 
one  another.  From  the  letters  of  the  younger  man  I 
have  selected  one  or  two  to  illustrate  the  trend  of  his 
mind  at  that  date: 

19  Albebt  St.,  Regent's  Pabk, 
Oct.,  1879. 

My  dear  John, 

Thanks  for  your  welcome  letter  of  18th  August.  My 
purpose,  in  my  letter  of  May  7th,  if  I  recollect  rightly, 
was  to  urge  that  Reason  is  sometimes  transcended  by 


30  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

Emotion — sufficiently  often,  that  is  to  say,  to  prevent 
philosophers  from  deriding  the  idea  that  a  truth,  may 
be  reached  emotionally  now  and  again,  quicker  than  by 
the  light  of  Reason.  God  may  be  beyond  the  veil  of 
mortal  life,  but  I  cannot  see  that  he  has  given  us  any 
definite  revelation  beyond  what  pure  Deism  teaches,  viz., 
that  there  is  a  Power — certainly  beneficent,  most  prob- 
ably eternal,  possibly  (in  effect,  if  not  in  detail)  omni- 
potent— who,  letting  the  breath  of  His  being  blow  through 
all  created  things,  evolves  the  Ascidian  into  man,  and 
man  into  higher  manifestations  than  are  possible  on 
earth,  and  whose  message  and  revelation  to  man  is  shown 
forth  in  the  myriad-paged  volume  of  nature,  and  the 
inherent  yearning  in  every  human  soul  for  something 
out  of  itself  and  yet  of  it.  Of  such  belief,  I  may  say  that 
I  am. 

But  my  mind  is  like  a  troubled  sea,  whereon  the  winds 
of  doubt  blow  continually,  with  waves  of  dead  hopes 
and  religious  beliefs  washing  far  away  behind,  and  noth- 
ing before  but  the  weary  seeming  of  phantasmal  shores. 
At  times  this  faith  that  I  cherish  comes  down  upon  me 
like  the  hushful  fall  of  snow-flakes,  calming  and  soothing 
all  into  peace ;  and  again,  it  may  be,  it  appears  as  a  dark 
thunder-cloud,  full  of  secret  lightnings  and  portentous 
mutterings.  And,  too,  sometimes  I  seem  to  waken  into 
thought  with  a  start,  and  to  behold  nothing  but  the  blind 
tyranny  of  pure  materialism,  and  the  unutterable  sor- 
row and  hopelessness  of  life,  and  the  bitter  blackness 
of  the  end,  which  is  annihilation.  But  such  phases  are 
generally  transient,  and,  like  a  drowning  man  buffeting 
the  overwhelming  waves,  I  can  often  rise  above  them 
and  behold  the  vastness  and  the  Glory  of  the  Light  of 
Other  Life. 

And  this  brings  me  to  a  question  which  is  at  present 
troubling  many  others  besides  myself.  I  mean  the 
question  of  the  immortality  of  the  individual.  I  do  not 
know  how  you  regard  it  yourself,  but  you  must  be  aware 
that  the  drift  of  modem  thought  is  antagonistic  to  per- 
sonal immortality,  and  that  many  of  our  best  and  most 


AUSTRALIA  31 

intelligent  thinking  men  and  women  abjure  it  as  mi- 
worthy  of  their  high  conception  of  Humanity.  .  .  . 

But  is  Humanity  all?  Has  Humanity  fashioned  itself 
out  of  primal  elements,  arisen  and  marched  down  the 
long,  strange  ways  of  Time — still  marching,  with  eyes 
fixed  on  some  self-projected  Goal — without  ever  a  spir- 
itual breath  blowing  upon  it,  without  ever  the  faintest 
guidance  of  any  divine  hand,  without  ever  a  glance  of 
sorrowful  and  yearning  but  yet  ineffably  hopeful  love 
from  some  Being  altogether  beyond  and  transcending 
it?  Is  it,  can  it  be  so?  But  in  any  case,  whether  with 
the  Nirvana  of  the  follower  of  Buddha,  the  absorption 
of  the  soul  in  the  soul  of  God  of  the  Deist  and  Theist, 
or  with  the  loss  of  the  individual  in  the  whole  of  the 
Race  of  the  Humanitarian,  I  cannot  altogether  agree. 
It  may  be  the  "  old  Adam "  of  selfishness ;  it  may  be 
poverty  of  highest  feeling  and  insufiSciency  of  intellec- 
tual grasp;  but  I  cannot  embrace  the  belief  in  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  individual.  .  .  . 

23d  October,  1880. 

I  am  glad  you  like  my  stort  paper  in  the  Sectarian 
Review  and  I  think  that  you  understand  my  motive  in 
writing  it.  It  is  no  unreasoning  reverence  that  I  advo- 
cate, no  "  countenancing  beliefs  in  worn-out  supersti- 
tions," as  you  say;  no  mercy  to  the  erring,  but  much 
mercy  to  and  sympathy  with  the  deceived.  I  do  not  rev- 
erence the  Bible  or  the  Christian  Theology  in  them- 
selves, but  for  the  beautiful  spirituality  which  faintly 
but  ever  and  again  breathes  through  them,  like  a  vague 
wind  blowing  through  intricate  forests;  and  so  far  I 
reverence  the  recognition  of  this  spiritual  breath  in  the 
worship  of  those  whose  views  are  so  very  different  from 
my  own.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  writing  a  good  deal  lately — chiefly  verse. 
There  is  one  thing  which  I  am  sure  will  interest  you: 
some  time  ago  I  wrote  a  sonnet  called  "  Religion,"  the 
drift  of  which  was  to  show  the  futility  of  any  of  the 
great  creeds  as  creeds,  and  two  or  three  weeks  ago 


32  WILLIAM  SHARP 

showed  it  to  my  friend  Mr.  Belford  Bax.  It  seems  to 
have  made  considerable  impression  upon  him,  for,  after 
what  he  calls  "  having  absorbed  it,"  he  has  set  H  to  very 
beautiful  recitative  music.  There  are  some  fine  chords 
in  the  composition,  preluding  the  pathetic  melody  of  the 
finale;  and  altogether  it  has  given  me  great  pleasure. 
But  what  specially  interests  me  is  that  it  is  the  first 
time  (as  far  as  I  am  aware)  of  a  sonnet  in  any  lan- 
guage having  been  set  to  music.  The  form  of  this  kind 
of  verse  is  of  course  antagonistic  to  song-music,  and 
could  only  be  rendered  by  recitative.  Do  you  know  of 
any  instance  having  occurred?  The  sonnet  in  question 
will  appear  in  The  Examiner  in  a  week  or  two. 

Lo,  in  a  dream,  I  saw  a  vast  dim  aea 

Whose  sad  waves  broke  upon  a  barren  shore; 
The  name  of  this  wan  sea  was  'Nevermore, 

The  land  The  Past,  the  shore  Futility: 

Thereon  I  spied  three  mighty  Shadows;   three 
Weary  and  desolate  Shades,  of  whom  each  wore 
A  crown  whereon  was  writ  Despair.    To  me 

One  spoke,  and  said,  "  Lo,  I  am  He 

In  whom  the  countless  millions  of  the  East 

Live,  move,  and  hope.     And  all  is  vanity!  " — 
And  I  knew  Buddha.    Then  the  next :  "  The  least 
Am  I,  but  once  Gk)d's  mightiest  Prophet-Priest " — 

So  spake  Mahomet.     And  then  pitifully 

The  third  Shade  moaned,  "  I  am  of  Galilee !  " 

I  also  enclose  the  record  of  a  vision  I  had  lately: 

Lo,  in  that  Shadowy  place  wherein  is  found 
The  fruitage  of  the  spirit  men  call  dreams, 
I  wander'd.     Ever  underneath  pale  gleams 

Of  misty  moonlight  quivering  all  around, 
And  ever  by  the  banks  of  sedgy  streams 
Swishing  thro'  fallen  rushes  with  slow  sound 

A  spirit  walked  beside  me.     From  a  mound. 

Rustling  from  poplar-leaves  from  top  to  base. 

Some  bird  I  knew  not  shrilled  a  cry  of  dole. 

So  bitter,  I  cried  out  to  God  for  grace. 

Whereat  he  by  me  slackened  from  his  pace, 

Turning  upon  me  in  my  cold  amaze 

And  saying,  "  While  the  long  years  onward  roll 

Thou  shalt  be  haunted  by  this  hateful  face — " 
And  looking  up,  I  looked  on  my  own  soul! 


AUSTRALIA  33 

Nov.  20,  1880. 

If  this  note  does  not  reach  you  by  New  Year's  Day  it 
will  soon  after — so  let  me  wish  you  most  heartily  and 
sincerely  all  good  wishes  for  the  coming  year.  May  the 
"White  AVings  of  Happiness  and  Peace  and  Health  brush 
from  your  path  all  evil  things.  There  is  something  sel- 
fish in  the  latter  wish,  for  I  hope  so  much  to  see  you 
before  long  again.  Don't  despise  me  when  I  say  that 
in  some  things  I  am  more  a  woman  than  a  man — and 
when  my  heart  is  touched  strongly  I  lavish  more  love 
upon  the  one  who  does  so  than  I  have  perhaps  any  right 
to  expect  returned;  and  then  I  have  so  few  friends  that 
when  I  do  find  one  I  am  ever  jealous  of  his  or  her  absence. 

P.  S. — I  wonder  if  this  late  Kentish  violet  will  retain 
its  delicious  scent  till  it  looks  at  you  in  New  Zealand. 
It  is  probably  the  last  of  its  race. 

Feb.,  1881. 

I  may  say  in  reference  to  the  Religion  of  Humanity 
that  my  sympathy  with  Comtism  is  only  limited,  and 
that  though  I  think  it  is  and  will  yet  be  an  instrument 
of  great  good,  I  see  nothing  in  it  of  essential  savingness. 
It  is  even  in  some  of  its  ceremonial  and  practical  details  a 
decided  retrogression — at  least  so  it  seems  to  me — and 
though  I  do  not  believe  in  a  revealed  God,  I  think  such 
a  belief  higher  and  more  precious  and  morally  as  salutary 
as  a  belief  in  abstract  Humanity.  Concrete  humanity  ap- 
peals more  to  my  sympathy  when  filled  with  the  breath 
of  "  God  "  than  in  its  relation  to  its  abstract  Self.  When 
I  write  again  I  will  endeavour  to  answer  your  question 
as  to  whether  I  believe  in  a  God  or  not.  My  friend,  we 
are  all  in  the  hollow  of  some  mighty  moulding  Hand. 
Every  fibre  in  my  body  quivers  at  times  with  absolute 
faith  and  belief,  yet  I  do  not  say  that  I  believe  in  "  God  " 
when  asked  such  a  question  by  those  whom  I  am  con- 
scious misinterpret  me.  You  have  some  lines  of  mine 
called  "  The  Redeemer  " ;  they  will  hint  something  to  you 
of  that  belief  which  buoys  my  soul  up  in  the  ocean  of 


34  WILLIAM  SHARP 

love  that  surrounds  it.  It  were  well  for  the  soul,  if 
annihilation  rounds  off  the  circle  of  life,  to  sink  to  final 
forgetfulness  in  the  sea  of  precious  human  love;  but  it 
is  far  better  if  the  soul  can  be  borne  along  that  sea  of 
wonder  and  glory  to  distant  ever-expanding  goals,  tran- 
scending in  love,  glory,  life  all  that  human  imagination 
ever  conceived.  .  .  . 

Farewell  for  the  present,  dear  friend. 

W. 


CHAPTER   III 

EAKLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON 

The  most  important  influence  in  the  early  literary 
career  of  the  young  poet  was  his  friendship  with  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti.  He  gained  not  only  a  valued  friend, 
who  introduced  him  to  many  of  the  well-known  writers 
of  the  time,  but  one  who  helped  him  in  the  development 
of  his  art  by  sound,  careful  criticism  and  kindly  encour- 
agement. His  first  acquaintance  with  the  writings  of 
the  painter-poet  dated  from  the  Autumn  of  1879,  when 
on  his  birthday  Miss  Adelaide  Elder  had  sent  him  a  vol- 
ume of  poems,  an  incident  destined  to  have  far-reaching 
results.    In  1899  he  wrote  to  her : 

Deae  Adelaide, 

Do  you  know  why  I  thought  of  you  to-day  particu- 
larly, it  being  my  birthday?  For  it  was  you  who  some 
two  and  twenty  years  ago  sent  me  on  the  12th  of  Septem- 
ber a  copy  of  a  beautifully  bound  book  by  a  poet  with  a 
strange  name  and  by  me  quite  unknown — Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti. 

To  that  event  it  is  impossible  to  trace  all  I  owe,  but 
what  is  fairly  certain  is  that,  without  it,  the  whole  course 
of  my  life  might  have  been  very  different.  For  the  book 
not  only  influenced  and  directed  me  mentally  at  a  cru- 
cial period,  but  made  me  speak  of  it  to  an  elderly  friend 
(Sir  Noel  Paton)  through  whom  I  was  dissuaded  from 
going  abroad  on  a  career  of  adventure  (I  was  going  to 
Turkey  or  as  I  vaguely  put  it,  Asia)  and  through  whom, 
later,  I  came  to  know  Rossetti  himself — an  event  which 
completely  redirected  the  whole  course  of  my  life. 

It  would  be  strange  to  think  how  a  single  impulse  of 
a  friend  may  thus  have  so  profound  a  significance  were 
it  not  that  to  you  and  me  there  is  nothing  strange  (in 

35 


36  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

the  sense  of  incredible)  in  the  complex  spiritual  inter- 
relation of  life.  Looking  back  through  all  those  years 
I  daresay  we  can  now  both  see  a  strange  and  in  much 
inscrutable,  but  still  recognisable,  direction. 

To  quote  his  own  words: 

"  By  the  autumn  of  1880  I  was  within  sight  of  that 
long  and  arduous  career  called  the  literary  life.  An 
extraordinary  good  fortune  met  me  at  the  outset,  for, 
through  an  introduction  from  Sir  Noel  Paton,  I  came  to 
know,  and  know  intimately,  Dante  Gabriel  Eossetti, 
whose  winsome  personality  fascinated  me  as  much  as 
his  great  genius  impressed  me.  Eossetti  introduced  me 
to  one  who  became  my  chief  friend — the  late  Philip 
Bourke  Marston;  and  through  Eossetti  also  I  came  to 
know  Mr.  Theodore  Watts,  Mr.  Swinburne,  and  others. 
By  the  spring  of  1881,  I  was  in  the  literary  world,  and 
in  every  phase  of  it,  from  the  most  Bohemian  to  the  most 
isolated." 

On  the  1st  of  September,  1881,  William  Sharp  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  door  of  16  Cheyne  Walk.  The 
housekeeper  explained  that  Mr.  Eossetti  could  receive 
no  one.  The  importunate  stranger  persisted  and  stated 
that  it  was  of  the  highest  importance  that  he  should  see 
Mr.  Eossetti  and  so  impressed  her  that  she  not  only 
went  to  report  to  Mr.  Eossetti  but  came  back  with  orders 
to  admit  him.  On  seeing  his  eager  visitor,  the  poet- 
painter  naturally  asked  him  what  he  wanted  so  urgently, 
and  his  visitor  answered  promptly,  "  Only  to  shake 
hands  with  you  before  you  die !  "  "  Well,"  was  the  an- 
swer, "  I  am  in  no  immediate  danger  of  dying,  but  you 
may  shake  hands  if  you  wish." 

The  introduction  from  Sir  Noel  Paton  was  then  ten- 
dered; and  thus  began  a  friendship  that  grew  to  a  deep 
affectionate  devotion  on  the  side  of  the  younger  man. 

Eossetti  took  him  into  the  studio,  and  showed  him  the 
paintings  he  had  on  his  easels.  The  two  which  specially 
impressed  his  visitor  were  "  La  Donna  della  Fenestra," 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  37 

and  "  Dante's  Dream."  Li  a  letter  written  to  me  when 
I  was  in  Italy,  he  describes  the  pictures  as  beautiful 
colour  harmonies,  and  continues: 

"  After  I  had  looked  at  it  for  a  long  time  in  happy 
silence,  Rossetti  sat  behind  me  in  the  shadow  and  read 
me  his  translation  of  the  poem  from  the  Vita  Nuova, 
which  refers  to  Dante's  Dream.  Was  it  not  kind  of  him 
to  give  so  much  pleasure  to  one,  a  complete  stranger? 
I  also  saw  several  other  paintings  of  extreme  beauty, 
but  which  I  have  no  time  to  mention  at  present.  He  told 
me  to  come  again,  and  shortly  before  I  left  he  asked  me 
for  my  address,  and  said  that  he  would  ask  me  to  come 
some  evening  to  talk  with  him,  and  also  to  meet  one  or 
two.  This  was  altogether  unexpected.  Fancy  having  two 
such  men  for  friends  as  Sir  Noel  Paton  and  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti!  I  went  out  in  a  dream.  The  outside 
world  was  altogether  idealised.  I  was  in  the  golden  age 
again.  To  calm  myself,  I  went  and  leant  over  Chelsea 
Embankment,  where  there  were  many  people  as  there 
was  a  regatta  going  on.  But,  though  conscious  of  exter- 
nal circumstances,  I  was  not  in  London.  The  blood  of 
the  South  burned  in  my  veins,  the  sky  was  a  semi-trop- 
ical one :  the  river  rushing  past  was  not  the  Thames,  but 
the  Tiber;  the  granite  embankment  was  a  marble  aque- 
duct, with  vines  laden  with  ripe  fruit  covering  it  with  a 
fragrant  veil:  citrons  and  pomegranates  were  all 
around.  Dark  passionate  eyes  of  the  South  met  mine; 
the  dreamy  sweetness  of  a  strange  tongue  sang  an  inef- 
fably delicious  song  through  and  through  my  soul:  I 
sank  into  the  utmost  realms  of  reverie,  and  drank  a 
precious  draught  of  alien  life  for  only  too  brief  a  space. 
Not  De  Quincey  in  the  mystic  rapture  of  opium,  not  Mo- 
hammed in  his  vision  of  Paradise,  drank  deeper  of  the 
ineffable  wine  of  the  Supreme  and  Unattainable." 

It  was  several  weeks  before  the  much-hoped-for  invi- 
tation came,  and  the  recipient  was  feeling  so  ill  that  he 
was  hardly  in  a  condition  to  take  full  advantage  of  it, 
and  feared  he  had  made  a  bad  impression  on  his  host. 
The  following  morning  he  wrote: 


38  WILLIAM    SHARP 

19  Albert  St.,  Regent's  Pabk   N.W., 

31:  1:  80. 

My  dear  Sir, 

I  hope  you  will  not  consider  me  ungrateful  for  the 
pleasure  you  gave  me  last  night  because  I  outwardly 
showed  so  little  appreciation — but  I  was  really  so  un- 
well from  cold  and  headache  that  it  was  the  utmost  I 
could  do  to  listen  coherently.  But  though,  otherwise, 
I  look  back  gratefully  to  the  whole  evening  I  especially 
recall  with  pleasure  the  few  minutes  in  which  now  and 
again  you  read.  I  have  never  heard  such  a  beautiful 
reader  of  verse  as  yourself,  and  if  I  had  not  felt — well, 
shy — I  should  have  asked  you  to  go  on  reading.  Voice, 
and  tone,  and  expression,  all  were  in  perfect  harmony — 
and  although  I  have  much  else  to  thank  you  for,  allow 
me  to  thank  you  for  the  pleasure  you  have  given  me  in 
this  also. 

I  enclose  4  or  5  poems  taken  at  random  from  my  MSS. 
Two  or  three  were  written  two  or  three  years  ago.  That 
called  the  "  Dancer "  is  modelled  on  your  beautiful 
"  Card-Dealer." 

I  have  also  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  criticisms :  and 
hope  that  you  do  not  consider  my  aspirations  and  daring 
hopes  as  altogether  in  vain.  Despair  comes  sometimes 
upon  me  very  heavily,  but  I  have  not  yet  lost  heart. 

Yours  most  faithfully, 
;  William  Sharp. 

On  the  23d  of  February  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Caird : 

Dear  Mona, 

Was  unable  after  all  to  resume  my  letter  on  Friday 
night.  On  Friday  morning  I  had  a  note  from  Rossetti 
wanting  me  to  come  again  and  dine  with  him — this  time 
alone,  I  was  glad  to  find.  I  spent  a  most  memorable 
evening,  and  enjoyed  myself  more  than  I  can  tell.  We 
dined  together  in  free  and  easy  manner  in  his  studio, 
surrounded  by  his  beautiful  paintings  and  studies. 
Then,  and  immediately  after  dinner  he  told  me  things  of 
himself,  personal  reminiscences,  with  other  conversation 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  39 

about  the  leading  living  painters  and  poets.  Then  he 
talked  to  me  about  myself,  and  my  manuscripts — a  few  of 
which  he  had  seen.  Then  personal  and  other  matters 
again,  followed,  to  my  great  delight  (as  Rossetti  is  a 
most  beautiful  reader)  by  his  reading  to  me  a  great  part 
of  the  as  yet  unpublished  sonnets  which  go  to  form  "  The 
House  of  Life."  Some  of  them  were  splendid,  and 
seemed  to  me  finer  than  those  published — more  mark- 
edly intellectual,  I  thought.  This  took  up  a  long  time, 
which  passed  most  luxuriously  for  me.  .  .  . 

He  has  been  so  kind  to  me  every  way:  and  this  time 
he  gave  me  two  most  valuable  and  welcome  introductions 
— one  to  Philip  Bourke  Marston,  the  man  whose  genius 
is  so  wonderful,  considering  he  has  been  blind  from  his 
birth — and  the  other  to  his  brother  Mr.  Michael  Ros- 
setti, to  whom,  however,  he  had  already  kindly  spoken 
about  me.  I  am  to  go  when  I  wish  to  the  latter's  liter- 
ery  re-unions,  where  I  shall  make  the  acquaintance  of 
some  of  our  leading  authors  and  authoresses.  Did  I 
tell  you  that  the  last  time  I  dined  at  Rossetti's  house  he 
gave  me  a  copy  of  his  poems,  with  something  from  him- 
self written  on  the  fly-leaf?  On  that  occasion  I  also  met 
Theodore  Watts,  the  well-known  critic  of  The  Athe- 
naeum. It  is  so  strange  to  be  on  intimate  terms  with  a 
man  whom  a  short  time  ago  I  looked  on  as  so  far  off. 
Perhaps,  dear  friend,  when  you  come  to  stay  with  Eliza- 
beth and  myself  in  the  happy  days  which  I  hope  are  in 
store  for  us  all,  you  will  "  pop  "  into  quite  a  literary 
circle!  ...  I  was  sure,  also,  you  would  enjoy  the  Life 
of  Clifford  in  "  Mod :  Thought."  What  a  splendid  man 
he  was :  a  true  genius,  yet  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  sociable, 
fun-loving,  genial,  and  in  every  way  a  gentleman.  I 
was  reading  one  of  his  books  lately,  and  was  struck  with 
the  sympathetic  spirit  he  showed  toward  what  to  him 
meant  nothing — Christianity.  I  wish  we  had  more  men 
like  him.  There  is  another  man  for  whom  I  think  I  have 
an  equal  admiration,  though  of  a  different  order  in  one 
sense — Dr.  Martineau.    Have  you  read  anything  of  his? 

On  Wednesday  evening  next  I  am  going  to  a  Spiritual 


40  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

Seance,  by  the  best  mediums — which  I  am  looking  for- 
ward to  with  great  curiosity.  .  .  . 

Besides  verse,  I  am  writing  a  Paper  just  now  on  "  Cli- 
mate in  Relation  to  the  Influences  of  Art,"  and  going  on 
with  one  or  two  other  minor  things.  There  now,  I  have 
told  you  all  about  myself.  .  .  . 

Your  friend  and  comrade. 

Will. 

He  submitted  several  poems  to  Eossetti  who  had  sug- 
gested that  if  he  had  a  suitable  sonnet  it  might  be  in- 
cluded in  Hall  Caine's  Century  of  Sonnets.  Eossetti's 
acknowledgment  contained  an  adverse  criticism  on  the 
Sonnet  sent,  softened  by  an  invitation  to  the  younger 
man  to  go  again  to  see  him. 

Saturday. 

Dear  Mr.  Eossetti, 

Thanks  for  your  kind  invitation  to  Philip  and  myself 
for  Monday  night — which  we  are  both  glad  to  accept. 
I  found  him  in  bed  this  morning  on  my  way  to  the  city — 
but  had  no  scruple  in  waking  him  as  I  knew  what  pleas- 
ure your  message  would  give.  We  both  thank  you  also 
for  promising  to  put  us  up  at  night. 

I  infer  from  your  letter  that  you  do  not  think  The 
Two  Realities  good  enough  to  send  to  Caine:  and 
though  of  course  sorry,  I  acquiesce  in  your  judgment.  I 
know  that  none  of  my  best  work  is  in  sonnet-form,  and 
that  I  have  less  mastery  over  the  latter  than  any  other 
form  of  verse.  But  I  will  try  to  improve  my  deficiencies 
in  this  way  by  acting  up  to  your  suggestions.  You  see, 
I  have  never  had  the  advantage  of  such  a  severe  critic 
as  you  before.  For  instance,  I  have  received  praise 
from  many  on  account  of  a  sonnet  you  once  saw  (one 
of  a  series  on  "Womanhood")  called  "Approaching 
Womanhood  " — which  I  enclose  herewith — wishing  you 
to  tell  me  Jiow  it  is  poor  and  what  I  might  have  made  of 
it  instead.  As  I  am  writing  from  the  city  I  have  no 
others  by  me  (but  indeed  you  have  been  bothered  suffi- 


EAELY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  41 

ciently  already)  but  will  try  and  give  one  from  memory 
— which  I  hastily  dashed  down  one  day  in  the  office. 
Looking  forward  to  Monday  night, 

Yours  ever  sincerely, 

William  Shabp. 

Eventually  the  Sonnets  were  written  that  satisfied  his 
critic  and  were  included  in  Hall  Caine's  Anthology. 

About  this  time  also  he  was  attempting  a  poem  relat- 
ing to  an  imaginary  episode  in  the  early  life  of  Christ. 
To  me  it  seemed  a  mistake,  and  I  urged  him  to  consult 
Mr.  Rossetti,  who  replied  as  follows : 

Thursday,  Jan.,  1880. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  am  quite  unable  to  advise  you  on  so  abstruse  a  point. 
Strange  to  say,  I  can  conceive  no  higher  Ideal  than  the 
Christ  we  know;  and  I  judge  it  to  be  very  rash  to  lower 
in  poetry  (to  the  apprehension  of  many  beautiful  minds) 
that  Ideal,  by  any  assumption  to  decide  a  point  respect- 
ing it  which  it  is  not  possible  to  decide,  whichever  way 
belief  or  even  conviction  may  tend. 

I  did  not  gather  fully  the  relation  of  the  Wandering 
Jew  to  your  poem.  If  the  very  Jew  in  question,  how  is 
he  to  know  of  the  development  of  humanity  before  his 
time?  That  he  is  a  symbol  of  course  I  understand;  but 
the  balance  between  person  and  symbol  should  be  clearly 
determined.  I  hope  you  may  enjoy  yourself  in  such 
good  company,  and  am  ever. 

Sincerely  yours, 

D.  G.  Rossetti. 

Sir  Noel  Paton  had  given  his  younger  countryman  an 
introduction  also  to  his  old  friend  Mrs.  Craik  (author  of 
John  Halifax)  who,  it  happened,  was  P.  B.  Marston's  god- 
mother. She  had  a  house  in  Kent,  at  Shortlands,  and 
to  it  she  on  several  occasions  invited  the  two  young 
poets.     During  one  of  these  days,  in  the  late  summer^ 


42  WILLIAM    SHARP 

they  went  for  a  drive  through  the  green  lanes,  when  sud- 
denly there  came  on  a  thunderstorm.  The  carriage  was 
shut  up,  but  there  was  no  way  of  protecting  the  occupant 
of  the  box  seat.  So  that  Philip  should  come  to  no  harm 
the  younger  man  took  the  box  seat  and  got  thoroughly 
wet.  On  reaching  the  house  he  refused  many  sugges- 
tions to  have  his  clothes  dried,  and  went  back  to  town 
that  evening  in  his  damp  garments.  A  violent  cold  en- 
sued, which  he  was  unable  to  throw  off.  He  was  out  of 
health,  ill-nourished,  owing  to  his  slender  means,  and 
overworked.  That  summer  my  mother  had  taken  a  cot- 
tage in  South  Wales,  on  the  estuary  near  Portmadoc, 
and  my  cousin  came  to  spend  his  holidays  with  us.  A 
weary  delicate  creature  arrived,  but  he  was  sure  that  a 
bathe  or  two  in  the  salt  water  would  soon  cure  him.  Alas, 
instead  of  that  within  a  few  days  he  was  laid  low  with 
rheumatic  fever,  and  for  four  weeks  my  mother  and  I 
nursed  him  and  it  was  the  end  of  September  before  he 
could  go  back  to  town.  That  autumn  my  mother  let  her 
house  for  six  months  and  decided  to  winter  in  Italy  with 
her  daughters.  Although  there  was  much  that  was 
alluring  in  the  prospect  I  was  very  greatly  worried  at 
leaving  London,  for  my  poet  was  so  weak  and  delicate, 
and  I  distrusted  his  notions  of  taking  care  of  himself. 
On  the  13th  December  he  wrote  to  me: 

Monday,  13:  12:  80. 

"  I  spent  such  a  pleasant  evening  on  Saturday.  I  went 
round  to  Francillon's  house  about  8  o'clock,  and  spent 
about  an  hour  there  with  him  and  Julian  Hawthorne. 
Then  we  walked  down  to  Covent  Garden,  and  joined  the 
'  Oasis  '  Club — where  we  met  about  30  or  so  other  liter- 
ary men  and  artists,  including  the  D.  Christie  Murray 
I  so  much  wished  to  meet,  and  whom  I  like  very  much. 
We  spent  a  very  pleasant  while  a  decidedly  '  Bohem- 
ian '  night,  and  after  we  broke  up  I  walked  home  with 
Francillon,  Julian  Hawthorne,  and  Murray.  Hawthorne 
and  myself  are  to  be  admitted  members  at  the  next 
meeting." 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  43 

He  has  described  his  friendship  with  the  blind  poet  in 
his  Introduction  to  a  Selection  of  Marston's  poems  pub- 
lished in  the  Canterbury  Series: 

"  I  was  spending  an  evening  with  Rossetti,  when  I 
chanced  to  make  some  reference  to  Marston's  poetry. 
Finding  that  I  did  not  know  the  blind  poet  and  that  I 
was  anxious  to  meet  him,  Rossetti  promised  to  bring  us 
together.  I  remember  that  I  was  fascinated  by  him  at 
once — his  manner,  his  personality,  his  conversation. 
*  There  is  a  kind  of  compensation,'  he  remarked  to  me- 
once,  '  in  the  way  that  new  friendships  arise  to  brighten 
my  life  as  soon  as  I  am  bowled  over  by  some  great 
loss.'  " 

Just  before  Christmas,  William  wrote : 

Dear  Mr.  Rossetti, 

...  I  wished  very  much  to  show  you  two  poems  I  had 
written  in  the  earlier  half  of  this  year,  and  now  send 
them  by  the  same  post.  The  one  entitled  "  Motherhood  " 
I  think  the  better  on  the  whole.  It  was  written  to  give 
expression  to  the  feeling  I  had  so  strongly  of  the 
beauty  and  sacredness  of  Motherhood  in  itself,  and 
how  this  is  the  same,  in  degree,  all  through  creation: 
the  poem  is  accordingly  in  three  parts — the  first  deal- 
ing with  an  example  of  Motherhood  in  the  brute  crea- 
tion, the  second  with  a  savage  of  the  lowest  order, 
and  the  third  with  a  civilised  girl-woman  of  the  high- 
est type. 

The  other — "  The  Dead  Bridegroom  " — is  more  purely 
an  "  art "  poem.  After  reading  it,  you  will  doubtless 
recognise  the  story,  which  I  believe  is  true.  Swinburne 
(I  understand)  told  it  to  one  or  two,  and  Meredith  em- 
bodied it  in  a  short  ballad.  Philip  Marston  told  me  the 
story  one  day,  and,  it  having  taken  a  great  hold  upon 
me,  the  accompanying  poem  was  the  result.  After  I  had 
finished  and  read  it  to  Philip,  it  took  strong  hold  of  his 
imagination  also — and  so  he  also  began  a  poem  on  the 
same  subject,  treating  it  differently,  however,  and  em- 
ploying the  complete  details  of  the  story,  instead  of,  as 


44  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

I  have  done,  stopping  short  at  the  lover's  death,  and 
is  still  unfinished. 

It  is  in  great  part  owing  to  his  generously  enthusiastic 
praise  that  I  now  send  these  for  your  inspection;  but 
also  because  much  of  what  may  be  good  in  them  is  owing 
to  your  gratefully  remembered  personal  influence  and 
kindness,  as  well  as  your  own  beautiful  work." 

His  kindly  critic  answered: 

^  Jan.,  1881. 

My    dear    bHAEP, 

I  have  only  this  evening  read  your  poems,  and  am 
quite  amazed  at  the  vast  gain  in  distinction  and  reality 
upon  anything  I  had  seen  of  yours  before.  I  read 
"  Motherhood  "  first  and  think  it  best  on  the  whole.  It  is 
full  of  fine  things  and  strange  variety.  "  The  Dead  Bride- 
groom "  is  less  equal,  but  some  touches  are  extremely  fine. 
The  close  after  the  crisis  strikes  me  as  done  with  a  cer- 
tain difficulty  and  wants  some  pointing.  As  a  narrative 
poem,  I  do  not  yet  think  it  quite  distinct  enough,  though 
it  always  rises  at  the  right  moment.  The  execution  of 
your  work  needs  some  reform  in  detail.  The  adjectives, 
especially  when  monosyllabic,  are  too  crowded.  There 
are  continual  assonances  of  ings,  ants,  otvs,  etc.,  midway 
in  the  lines.  However,  the  sonorousness  is  sometimes 
striking  and  the  grip  of  the  phrases  complete  at  its  best. 
I  am  sure  you  have  benefited  much  by  association  with 
Philip  Marston,  though  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  such 
things  as  these  can  have  their  mainspring  elsewhere 
than  in  native  gift. 

I  will  keep  the  poems  a  few  days  yet  and  then  return 

them.  V  •  1 

Yours  smcerely, 

D.    G.    EOSSETTI. 

A  letter  from  the  younger  poet,  written  a  few  days 
later,  reached  me  in  Rome : 

24:1:81. 

"  Well,  last  Friday  was  a  '  red-letter '  day  to  me.  I 
went  to  Eossetti's  at  six,  dined  about  7.30,  and  stayed 
there  all  night.    We  had  a  jolly  talk  before  dinner,  and 


EAELY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  45 

then  Shields  the  painter  came  in  and  stayed  till  about  11 
o'clock:  after  that  Rossetti  read  me  all  his  unpublished 
poems,  some  of  which  are  magnificent — talked,  etc. — and 
we  did  not  go  to  bed  till  about  three  in  the  morning.  I 
did  not  go  to  the  Bank  next  day,  as  I  did  not  feel  well: 
however,  I  wrote  hard  at  poetry,  etc.,  all  day  till  seven 
o'clock,  managing  to  keep  myself  up  with  tea.  I  was 
quite  taken  aback  by  the  extent  of  Rossetti's  praise.  He 
said  he  did  not  say  much  in  his  letter  because  writing 
so  often  looks  ^  gushing '  but  he  considered  I  was  able 
to  take  a  foremost  place  among  the  yoimger  poets  of 
the  day — and  that  many  signs  in  my  writings  pointed 
to  a  first-class  poet — that  the  opening  of  '  The  Dead 
Bridegroom '  was  worthy  of  Keats — that  *  Motherhood ' 
was  in  every  sense  of  the  word  a  memorable  poem — 
that  I  must  have  great  productive  power,  and  broad  and 
fine  imagination — and  many  other  things  which  made  me 
very  glad  and  proud." 

"  The  Dead  Bridegroom  "  was  never  published,  but  in  a 
letter  to  a  friend  who  raised  objections  to  the  treatment 
of  the  poem  "Motherhood" — he  wrote  in  explanation: 

"  You  seem  to  think  my  object  in  writing  was  to  de- 
scribe the  actual  initial  act  of  Motherhood — whereas 
such  acts  were  only  used  incidentally  to  the  idea.  I 
entirely  agree  with  you  in  thinking  such  a  inotif  unfit  for 
poetic  treatment — and  more,  I  think  the  choice  of  such 
would  be  in  very  bad  taste  and  wanting  in  true  delicacy. 
My  aim  was  something  very  far  from  this — and  what 
made  me  see  you  had  not  grasped  it  were  the  words — 
^  Besides,  is  not  your  type  of  civilised  woman  degraded 
by  being  associated  with  the  savage  and  the  wild 
beast  r 

"  Of  course,  what  I  was  endeavouring  to  work  out 
was  just  the  opposite  of  this.  '  Motherhood '  was  writ- 
ten from  a  deep  conviction  of  the  beauty  of  the  state 
of  Motherhood  itself,  of  the  holy,  strangely  similar  bond 
of  union  it  gave  to  all  created  things,  and  how  it,  as  it 


46  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

were,  forged  the  links  whereby  the  chain  of  life  reached 
unbroken  from  the  polyp  depths  we  do  see  to  the  God 
whom  we  do  not  see.  Looking  at  it  as  I  did,  I  saw  it 
transfigured  to  the  Seal  of  Unity:  I  saw  the  bestial  life 
touch  the  savage,  and  the  latter's  low  existence  edge 
complete  nobility  of  womanhood,  as — in  the  spirit — I 
see  this  last  again  merge  into  fuller  spiritual  periods 
beyond  the  present  sphere  of  human  life.  In  embodying 
this  idea  I  determined  to  take  refuge  in  no  vague  tran- 
scendentalism, or  from  any  false  feeling  shirk  what  I 
knew  to  be  noble  in  its  mystic  wonder  and  significance: 
and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  philosophic  idea 
could  be  best  embodied  and  made  apparent  by  moulding 
it  into  three  typical  instances  of  motherhood,  represent- 
ing the  brute,  the  savage,  and  the  civilised  woman.  From 
this  point  of  view,  I  considered  the  making  choice  of  the 
initial  act  of  motherhood — of  birth — entirely  justifiable, 
and  beyond  reach  of  reproach  of  impurity,  or  even  un- 
fitness. As  to  the  artistic  working  out  of  these  typical 
motives,  I  gave  to  the  first  glow  and  colour,  to  the  sec- 
ond mystery  and  weirdness,  to  the  third  what  dignity 
and  solemnity  I  could. 

"  These  were  my  aims  and  views,  and  I  have  not  yet 
seen  anything  to  make  me  change  them.  .  .  . 

"  So  much  for  '  Motherhood.'  As  to  '  The  Dead  Bride- 
groom,' I  quite  admit  that  the  advisability  of  choosing 
such  subjects  is  a  very  debatable  one.  It  is  the  only 
one  of  mine  (in  my  opinion)  which  could  incur  the 
charge  of  doubtful  '  fitness.'  As  a  poem,  moreover,  it 
is  inferior  in  workmanship  to  '  Motherhood.'  " 

To  E.  A.  S. : 

"4:2:81. 

"  I  have  written  one  of  my  best  poems  (in  its  own  way) 
since  writing  you  last.  It  was  on  Tuesday  night :  I  did 
not  get  back  till  about  seven  o'clock,  and  began  at  once 
to  write.  Your  letter  came  an  hour  or  so  afterward  but 
it  had  to  lie  waiting  till  after  midnight,  when  I  finished, 
having  written  and  polished  a  complete  poem  of  thirty 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  47 

verses  in  that  short  time.  It  is  a  ballad.  The  story 
itself  is  a  very  tragic  one.  Perhaps  the  kind  of  verse 
would  be  clear  to  you  if  I  were  to  quote  a  verse  as  a 
specimen : 

"  And  I  saw  thy  face  wax  flush'd,  then  pale, 
And  thy  lips  grow  blue  like  black-ice  hail, 
With  eyes  on  fire  with  the  soul's  fierce  bale, 
Son    of   Allan! 
"  I  may  have  been  pale,  and  may  be  red — 
But  this  night  shall  one  lie  white  and  dead. 

(O  Mother  of  God!  whose  eyes 
Watch  men  lie  dead  'neath  midnight  skies.)" 

"  Both  story  and  verse  I  invented  myself :  and  I  think 
you  will  think  it  equal  to  anything  I  have  done  in  power. 
It  was  a  good  lot  to  do  at  a  sitting,  wasn't  it?  I  will 
read  it  to  you  when  you  come  home  again.  ...  I  en- 
joyed my  stay  with  Eossetti  immensely.  We  did  not 
breakfast  till  one  o'clock  on  Tuesday— pretty  late, 
wasn't  it?  (I  told  you  I  had  a  holiday,  didn't  I?)  He 
told  me  again  that  he  considered  '  Motherhood '  fit  to 
take  the  foremost  place  in  recent  poetry.  He  has  such 
a  fine  house,  though  much  of  it  is  shut  up,  and  full  of 
fine  things :  he  showed  me  some  of  it  that  hardly  any  one 
ever  sees.  He  has  asked  me  to  come  to  him  again  next 
Sunday.  Isn't  it  splendid? — and  ar'n't  you  glad  for  my 
sake?  He  told  Philip  that  he  thought  I  "had  such  a 
sweet  genial  happy  nature."  Isn't  it  nice  to  be  told  of 
that.  My  intense  delight  in  little  things  seems  also  to 
be  a  great  charm  to  him — whether  in  a  stray  line  of 
verse,  or  some  new  author,  or  a  cloudlet,  or  patch  of 
blue  sky,  or  chocolate-drops,  etc.,  etc.  Have  you  noticed 
this  in  me  ?  I  am  half  gratified  and  half  amused  to  hear 
myself  so  delineated,  as  I  did  not  know  my  nature  was 
so  palpable  to  comparative  strangers.  And  now  I  am 
going  to  crown  my  horrid  vanity  by  telling  you  that  Mrs. 
Garnet  met  Philip  a  short  time  ago,  and  asked  after  the 
health  of  his  friend,  the  "  handsome  young  poet ! " 
There  now,  amn't  I  horridly  conceited?  (N.  B. — I'm 
pleased  all  the  same,  you  know!) 


48  WILLIAM   SHARP 

"  I  wrote  a  little  lyric  yesterday  which  is  one  of  the 
most  musical  I  have  ever  done.  To-day,  I  was  '  took ' 
by  a  writing  mood  in  the  midst  of  business  hours,  and 
despite  all  the  distracting  and  unpoetical  surroundings, 
managed  to  hastily  jot  down  the  accompanying  lyric.  It 
is  the  general  end  of  young  unknowing  love.  .  .  . 

"  I  had  a  splendid  evening  last  night,  and  Rossetti  read 
a  lot  more  of  his  latest  work.  Splendid  as  his  published 
work  is,  it  is  surpassed  by  what  has  yet  to  be  published. 
The  more  I  look  into  and  hear  his  poems  the  more  I  am 
struck  with  the  incomparable  power  and  depth  of  his 
genius — his  almost  magical  perfection  and  mastery  of 
language — his  magnificent  spiritual  strength  and  sub- 
tlety. He  read  some  things  last  night,  lines  in  which 
almost  took  my  breath  away.  No  sonnet-writer  in  the 
past  has  equalled  him,  and  it  is  almost  inconceivable  to 
imagine  any  one  doing  so  in  the  future.  His  influence 
is  already  deep  and  strong,  but  I  believe  in  time  to  come 
he  will  be  looked  back  to  as  we  now  look  to  Shakespeare, 
to  Milton,  and  in  one  sense  to  Keats.  I  can  find  no  lan- 
guage to  express  my  admiration  of  his  supreme  gifts, 
and  it  is  with  an  almost  painful  ecstasy  that  I  receive 
from  time  to  time  fresh  revelations  of  his  intellectual, 
spiritual,  and  artistic  splendour.  I  fancy  one  needs  to 
be  an  actual  poet  to  feel  this  to  the  full,  but  every  one, 
however  dim  and  stagnant  or  coldly  intellectual  his  or 
her  soul,  must  feel  more  or  less  the  marvellous  beauty 
of  this  wedding  of  the  spirit  of  emotional  thought  and 
the  spirit  of  language,  and  the  child  thereof — divine, 
perfect  expression.  Our  language  in  Rossetti's  hands 
is  more  solemn  than  Spanish,  more  majestic  than  Latin, 
deeper  than  German,  sweeter  than  Italian,  more  divine 
than  Greek.  I  know  of  nothing  comparable  to  it.  He 
told  me  to  call  him  Rossetti  and  not  '  Mr.  Rossetti,'  as 
disparity  in  age  disappears  in  close  friendship,  wasn't 
it  nice  of  him?  It  makes  me  both  very  proud  and  hum- 
ble to  be  so  liked  and  praised  by  the  greatest  master  in 
England — proud  to  have  so  far  satisfied  his  fastidious 
critical  taste  and  to  have  excited  such  strong  belief  in 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  49 

my  powers,  and  humble  in  that  I  fall  so  far  short  of  him 
as  to  make  the  gulf  seem  impassable." 

In  Italy  I  was  making  a  careful  study  of  the  old  mas- 
ters in  painting,  and  found  that  my  correspondent  took 
but  lukewarm  interest  in  my  enthusiasm.  Until  that  date 
he  had  had  little  opportunity  of  studying  Painting; 
and  at  no  time  did  the  cinquecento  and  earlier  paint- 
ers really  attract  him.  I  regretted  his  indifference, 
and  asked  him,  banteringly,  if  his  dislike  extended 
equally  to  the  early  masters  of  the  pen  and  to  those 
of  the  brush. 

He  replied :  "  You  ask  me,  if  I  dislike  the  Old.  Masters 
of  Poetry  as  much  as  I  do  those  of  Painting?  and  I  re- 
ply Certainly  not,  but  at  the  same  time  the  comparison 
is  not  fair.  Most  of  the  old  poets  are  not  only  poets  of 
their  time  but  have  special  beauties  at  the  present  day, 
and  can  be  read  with  as  much  or  almost  as  much  pleas- 
ure now  as  centuries  ago.  Their  imagination,  their 
scope,  their  detail  is  endless.  On  the  other  hand  the  Old 
Masters  of  Painting  are  (to  me,  of  course,  and  speak- 
ing generally)  utterly  uninteresting  in  their  subjects,  in 
the  way  they  treat  them,  and  in  the  meaning  that  is 
conveyed.  If  it  were  not  for  the  richness  and  beauty 
of  their  colour  I  would  never  go  into  another  gallery 
fro7n  pleasure,  but  colour  alone  could  not  always  satisfy 
me.  But  take  the  '  Old  Masters '  of  Poetry !  Homer 
of  Greece,  Virgil  and  Dante  of  Italy,  Theocritus  of 
Sicily,  and  in  England  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Ben  Jon- 
son,  Webster,  Ford,  Massinger,  Marlowe,  Milton! 

"  The  poetry  of  these  men  is  beautiful  in  itself  apart 
from  the  relation  they  bear  to  their  times.  We  may  not 
care  for  Dryden  (though  I  do)  or  Prior  or  Cowley,  be- 
cause in  the  verse  of  these  latter  there  is  nothing  to 
withstand  the  ages,  nothing  that  rises  above  their  times. 
In  looking  at  Rubens,  or  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  or  Fra  An- 
gelico,  we  must  school  ourselves  to  admiration  by  say- 
ing *  How  wonderful  for  their  time,  what  a  near  attempt 
at  a  perspective,  what  a  near  success  in  drawing  nature 


50  WILLIAM   SHARP 

— external  and  human ! '  Would  you,  or  any  one,  care 
for  a  painting  of  Angelico's  if  executed  in  exactly  the 
same  style  and  in  equally  soft  and  harmonious  colours 
at  the  present  day?  Could  you  enjoy  and  enter  into  it 
apart  from  its  relation  to  such-and-such  a  period  of 
early  Christian  Art?  It  may  be  possible,  but  I  doubt  it. 
On  the  other  hand  take  up  the  Old  Masters  of  Poetry 
and  judge  them  by  the  present  high  standard.  Take  up 
Homer — ^who  has  his  width  and  space?  Dante — ^who 
has  his  fiery  repressed  intensity?  Theocritus,  who  has 
sung  sweeter  of  meadows  and  summer  suns  and  flowers? 
Chaucer — who  is  as  delicious  now  as  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  fourteenth  century!  Shakespeare — who  was,  is, 
and  ever  shall  be  the  supreme  crowned  lord  of  verse! — 
Take  up  one  of  the  comparatively  speaking  minor  lights 
of  the  Elizabethan  era.  Does  Jonson  with  his  '  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour,'  or  his  '  Alchemist,'  does  Webster 
with  his  '  Duchess  of  Malfi,'  does  Ford  with  his  *  Lov- 
er's Melancholy,'  does  Massinger,  with  his  '  Virgin 
Martyr,'  do  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  with  their  '  Maid's 
Tragedy,'  does  Marlowe  with  his  '  Life  and  Death  of 
Dr.  Faustus,'  pall  upon  us?  Have  we  ever  to  keep  be- 
fore us  the  fact  that  they  lived  so  many  generations  or 
centuries  ago? 

"  I  never  tire  of  that  wonderful,  tremendous,  magnifi- 
cent epoch  in  literature — the  age  of  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists. 

"  Despite  the  frequent  beauty  of  much  that  followed  I 
think  the  genius  of  Poetry  was  of  an  altogether  inferior 
power  and  order  (excepting  Milton)  until  once  again 
it  flowered  forth  anew  in  Byron,  in  Coleridge,  in  Keats, 
and  in  Shelley !  These  two  last  names,  what  do  they  not 
mean!  Since  then,  after  a  slight  lapse.  Poetry  has 
soared  to  serener  heights  again,  and  Goethe,  Victor 
Hugo,  Tennyson,  and  Browning  have  moulded  new  gen- 
erations, and  men  like  Rossetti,  Swinburne,  Morris, 
Marston,  Longfellow,  and  others  have  helped  to  make 
still  more  exquisitely  fair  the  Temple  of  Human  Imagi- 
nation.   Men  like  Joaquin  Miller  and  Whitman  are  the 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  51 

south  and  north  winds  that  soothe  or  stir  the  leaves  of 
thought  surrounding  it. 

"  We  are  on  the  verge  of  another  great  dramatic  epoch 
— more  subtle  and  spiritual  if  not  grander  in  dimensions 
than  that  of  the  sixteenth  century.  I  hope  to  God  I  live 
to  see  the  sunrise  which  must  follow  the  wayward  lights 
of  the  present  troubled  dawn.  .  .  . 

"  On  Monday  evening  (from  eight  till  two)  I  go  again 
as  usual  to  Marston's.  I  called  at  his  door  on  my  way 
here  this  afternoon  and  left  a  huge  bouquet  of  wall- 
flowers, with  a  large  yellow  heart  of  daffodils,  to  cheer 
him  up.    He  is  passionately  fond  of  flowers.  .  .  ." 

That  winter,  despite  his  continued  delicacy,  was  full 
of  interest  to  William,  who  had  always  a  rare  capacity 
for  throwing  himself  into  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment, 
whatever  it  might  be,  or  into  the  interests  of  others  and 
dismissing  from  his  mind  all  personal  worries.  No  mat- 
ter how  depressed  he  might  be,  when  with  friends  he 
could  shake  himself  free  from  the  thraldom  of  the  black 
clouds  and  let  his  natural  buoyant  spirit  have  full  play. 
His  genial  sunny  manner,  his  instinctive  belief  in  and 
reliance  on  an  equal  geniality  in  others  assured  him 
many  a  welcome. 

Among  the  literary  houses  open  to  him  were  those  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Rossetti,  Miss  Christina  Rossetti, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Bell  Scott,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Francil- 
lon,  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  and  Mr.  Theodore  Watts. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Robinson,  whose  daughter,  Mary, 
distinguished  herself  among  the  poets  of  her  generation, 
were  especially  good  to  him.  Among  artists  whose 
studios  he  frequented  were  Mr.  Ford  Madox  Brown, 
Mr.  William  Morris  and  Mr.  Holman  Hunt,  and  Sir 
Frederick  Leighton;  and  among  his  intimate  friends  he 
counted  Mathilde  Blind,  the  poet,  Louise  Bevington, 
Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton,  Belford  Bax  and  others. 

There  was  a  reverse  side  to  the  picture  however.  His 
desire  and  effort  not  to  identify  himself — in  his  origi- 
nal work,  with  any  set  of  writers,  or  phase  of  literary 


52  WILLIAM   SHARP 

expression,  tended  to  make  him  of  no  account  in  the 
consideration  of  some  of  his  fellow  writers.  His  was 
a  slow  development,  and  while  he  gained  greatly  in 
the  technical  knowledge  of  his  art  through  the  wise  and 
careful  advice  of  Rossetti,  the  sensitive  taste  of  Philip 
Marston,  the  more  severe  criticism  of  Theodore  Watts, 
he  felt  he  had  a  definite  thing  to  say,  a  definite  word  of 
his  own  to  express  sooner  or  later.  It  was  long  before 
this  finally  shaped  its  utterance,  and  in  the  interval  he 
experimented  in  many  directions,  studied  various  meth- 
ods— and  of  course  to  make  a  livelihood  wrote  many 
"  pot-boilers  " — always  hoping  that  he  would  ultimately 
"  find  himself."  Unquestionably,  with  his  nature — which 
vibrated  so  sensitively  to  everything  that  was  beautiful 
in  nature  and  life,  and  had  in  it  so  much  of  exuberance, 
of  optimism — the  severe  grind  for  the  bare  necessities 
of  life,  the  equally  severe  criticism  that  met  his  early 
efforts,  proved  an  invaluable  schooling  to  him.  The 
immediate  result,  however,  was  that  his  "  other  self," 
the  dreaming  psychic  self,  slept  for  a  time,  or  at  any 
rate  was  in  abeyance.  "  William  Sharp "  gradually 
dominated,  and  before  long  he  was  accepted  generally 
as  literary  critic  and  later  as  art  critic  also.  So  com- 
plete, apparently,  for  a  time,  was  this  divorce  between 
the  two  radical  strains  in  him,  that  only  a  few  of  his  inti- 
mates suspected  the  existence  of  the  sensitive,  delicate, 
feminine  side  of  him  that  he  buried  carefully  out  of 
sight,  and  as  far  as  possible  out  of  touch  with  the  cur- 
rent of  his  literary  life  in  London  where  at  no  time  did 
the  "  Fiona  Macleod "  side  of  his  nature  gain  help  or 
inspiration. 

Just  as  of  old,  when  in  Glasgow,  he  had  wandered  in 
the  city  and  beyond  it,  and  made  acquaintances  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women,  so,  too,  did  he 
now  wander  about  London,  especially  about  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  "  The  Pool "  which  offered  irresistible  at- 
tractions and  experiences  to  him.  These  he  touched  on 
later  in  "  Madge  o'  the  Pool "  and  elsewhere.  I  remember 
he  told  me  that  rarely  a  day  passed  in  which  he  did  not 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  53 

try  to  imagine  himself  living  the  life  of  a  woman,  to  see 
through  her  eyes,  and  feel  and  view  life  from  her  stand- 
point, and  so  vividly  that  "  sometimes  I  forget  I  am  not 
the  woman  I  am  trying  to  imagine."  The  following  de- 
scription of  him,  at  this  date,  is  taken  from  a  letter 
quoted  in  Mrs.  Janvier's  article  on  "  Fiona  Macleod  and 
her  Creator  "  in  The  North  American  Review. 

"  You  ask  about  our  acquaintance  with  Willie  Sharp. 
Yes,  we  knew  him  well  in  the  days  when  we  all  were  gay 
and  young.  .  .  .  He  was  a  very  nice-looking  amiable 
young  fellow  whom  every  one  liked,  very  earnest  with 
great  notions  of  his  own  mission  as  regards  Poetry, 
which  he  took  very  seriously.  He  used  to  have  the  sav- 
ing grace  of  fun — which  kept  him  sweet  and  wholesome 
— otherwise  he  might  have  fallen  into  the  morbid  set." 

Unfortunately,  I  have  very  few  letters  or  notes  that 
illustrate  the  light  gay  side  of  his  nature — boyish,  whim- 
sical, mischievous,  with  rapid  changes  of  mood.  Others 
saw  more  of  it  at  this  period  than  I;  for  to  me  he  came 
for  sympathy  in  his  work  and  difficulties;  to  others  he 
went  for  gaiety  and  diversion,  and  to  them  he  made  light 
of  his  constant  delicacy ;  so  that  the  more  serious  side  of 
his  life  was  usually  presented  to  me — and  naturally  our 
most  impromising  prospects  and  our  long  engagement 
were  not  matters  to  inspirit  either  of  us. 

At  the  end  of  August  in  that  year  his  connection  with 
the  Bank  of  the  City  of  Melbourne  ceased.  That  his 
services  were  scarcely  valuable  to  his  employers  may  be 
gathered  from  the  manner  and  reason  of  his  dismissal. 
He  has  himself  told  the  story : 

"  I  did  not  take  very  kindly  to  the  business,  and  my 
employers  saw  it.  One  day  I  was  invited  to  interview 
the  Principal.  He  put  it  very  diplomatically,  said  he 
didn't  think  the  post  suited  me  (I  agreed),  and  finally 
he  offered  me  the  option  of  accepting  an  agency  in  some 
out-of-the-way  place  in  Australia,  or  quitting  the  Lon- 
don service.  '  Think  it  over,'  he  said,  *  and  give  us  your 
answer  to-morrow.'  I  think  I  might  have  given  him  my 
answer  there  and  then.    Next  morning  the  beauty  of  the 


54  WILLIAM   SHARP 

early  summer  made  an  irresistible  appeal  to  me.  I  had 
not  heard  the  cuckoo  that  season,  so  I  resolved  to  forget 
business  for  the  day,  seek  the  country,  and  hear  the 
cuckoo;  and  I  had  a  very  happy  time,  free  from  every- 
body, care,  and  worry.  Next  day  I  was  called  in  to  see 
the  Principal.  '  I  should  have  sent  word — ^busy  mail 
day,'  he  said.  'Was  I  ill?'  he  asked.  'No,'  I  replied, 
and  explained  the  true  cause  of  my  absence.  '  That's 
scarcely  business,'  he  said.  '  We  can't  do  with  one  who 
puts  the  call  of  the  cuckoo  before  his  work.'  However, 
his  offer  still  held.  What  was  I  to  do?  I  left  the 
bank." 

During  the  intervening  months  efforts  to  find  other 
work  resulted  through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Greorge  Lillie 
Craik  in  a  temporary  post  held  for  six  months  in  the 
Fine  Art  Society's  Gallery  in  Bond  Street.  It  was  the 
proposal  of  the  Directors  to  form  a  section  dealing  with 
old  German  and  English  Engravings  and  Etchings,  and 
that  William  should  be  put  in  charge  of  it;  and  that 
meanwhile,  during  the  six  months,  he  should  make  a  spe- 
cial study  of  the  subject,  learn  certain  business  details 
to  make  him  more  efficient.  The  work  and  the  prospect 
were  a  delightful  change  after  the  distasteful  grind  at 
the  Bank,  and  he  threw  himself  into  the  necessary  studies 
with  keen  relish. 

In  the  autumn  he  spent  two  months  in  Scotland,  vis- 
iting his  mother,  and  other  relatives,  Mr.  W.  Bell  Scott, 
and  his  old  friend  Sir  Noel  Paton. 

From  Lanarkshire  he  wrote  in  September  to  me  and 
to  Rossetti. 

ToE.  A.  S.: 

Lesmahagow,  Sept.,  1881. 

.  .  .  Yesterday  I  spent  some  hours  in  a  delicious  ram- 
ble over  the  moors  and  across  a  river  toward  a  distant 
fir  wood,  where  I  lay  down  for  a  time,  beside  the  whis- 
pering waters,  seeing  nothing  but  a  semicircle  of  pines, 
a  wall  of  purple  moorland,  the  brown  water  gurgling 
and  splashing  and  slowly  moving  over  the  mossy  stones, 


EAELY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  55 

and  above  a  deep  cloudless  blue  sky — and  hearing  noth.- 
ing  but  the  hum  of  a  dragonfly,  the  summery  sound  of 
innumerable  heather-bees,  and  the  occasional  distant 
bleat  of  a  sheep  or  sudden  call  of  a  grouse.  I  lay  there 
in  a  kind  of  trance  of  enjoyment — half  painful  from  in- 
tensity. I  drank  in  not  only  the  beauty  of  what  I  have 
just  described,  but  also  every  little  and  minute  thing 
that  crossed  my  vision — a  cluster  of  fir-needles  hanging 
steel-blue  against  the  deeper  colour  of  the  sky,  a  wood- 
dove  swaying  on  a  pine-bough  like  a  soft  gray  and  pur- 
ple blossom,  a  white  butterfly  clinging  to  a  yellow  blos- 
som heavy  with  honey,  a  ray  of  sunlight  upon  a  bunch 
of  mountain-ash  berries  making  their  scarlet  glow  with 
that  almost  terrible  red  which  is  as  the  blood  of  God  in 
the  sunsets  one  sometimes  sees,  a  dragonfly  poised  like 
a  flame  arrested  in  its  course,  a  little  beetle  stretching  its 
sharded  wings  upon  a  gray  stone,  a  tiny  blue  morsel  of  a 
floweret  between  two  blades  of  grass  looking  up  with,  I 
am  certain,  a  sense  of  ecstatic  happiness  to  the  similar 
skies  above — all  these  and  much  more  I  drank  in  with 
mingled  pain  and  rejoicing.  At  such  times  I  seem  to 
become  a  part  of  nature — the  birds  seem  when  they 
sing  to  say  things  in  a  no  longer  unfamiliar  speech — 
nor  do  they  seem  too  shy  to  approach  quite  close  to  me. 
Even  bees  and  wasps  I  do  not  brush  away  when  they 
light  upon  my  hands  or  face,  and  they  never  sting  me, 
for  I  think  they  know  that  I  would  not  harm  them.  I 
feel  at  these  rare  and  inexpressibly  happy  times  as  a 
flower  must  feel  after  morning  dew  when  the  sun  comes 
forth  in  his  power,  as  a  pine  tree  when  a  rising  wind 
makes  its  boughs  quiver  with  melodious  pain,  as  a  wild 
wood-bird  before  it  begins  to  sing,  its  heart  being  too 
full  for  music.  ...  0  why  weren't  you  there? 

lOth  Sept.,  1881. 

My  deak  Eossetti, 

Where  I  most  enjoy  myself  is  along  the  solitary  banks 
of  the  Nithan:  it  is  a  true  mountain  stream,  now  rush- 
ing along  in  broken  falls,  now  rippling  over  shallows  of 


56  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

exquisite  golden-brown  lines — ^now  slipping  with  slow 
perfect  grace  of  motion  under  the  overhanging  boughs 
of  willow,  pine,  or  mountain-ash — and  ever  and  again 
resting  in  deep  dark  linns  and  pools  in  deliciously 
dreamful  fashion,  the  only  signs  of  life  being  a  silver 
flash  from  its  depths  as  some  large  trout  or  grilse  stirs 
from  the  shelter  of  mottled  boulders  banking  the  sides, 
or  when  a  dragonfly  like  a  living  flame  flashes  backward 
and  forward  after  the  gray  gnats.  Indeed,  I  never  saw 
such  a  place  for  dragonflies — I  think  there  must  be  vast 
treasures  of  rubies  and  emeralds  under  these  lonely 
moors,  and  that  somehow  the  precious  stones  dissolve 
and  become  permeated  with  the  spirit  of  life,  and  rise 
up  living  green  fires  or  crimson  and  purple  flames  to 
flash  upon  the  unseen  hill-winds  instead  of  upon  a  wom- 
an's bosom  or  in  the  Holy  of  Holies  in  an  idolater's 
temple.  .  .  . 

After  the  gloaming  has  dreamed  itself  into  night  the 
banks  and  woods  along  the  stream  seem  to  become  a  part 
of  a  weird  faeryland.  The  shadows  are  simply  won- 
derful. White  owls  come  out  and  flit  about  on  silent 
ghostly  wings  with  weird  uncanny  cries,  and  bats  begin 
to  lead  a  furiously  active  existence.  The  other  night  I 
was  quite  startled  by  seeing  a  perfectly  white  animal 
slowly  approaching  me:  it  looked  remarkably  like  the 
ghost  of  a  fox  or  wild-cat,  but  I  am  afraid  it  was  only  a 
white  hare. 

So  much  for  my  surroundings.  As  for  the  few  peo- 
ple hereabout  they  are  all  charmingly  of  the  old  time. 
After  dinner,  and  while  the  claret,  port,  and  sherry  (the 
latter,  oh  so  brandied!)  are  in  process  of  consumption, 
large  toddy  goblets  with  silver  spoon-ladles  and  smaller 
tumblers  are  handed  round  to  ladies  and  gentlemen  alike. 
Then  come  the  large  silver  flagon  with  the  hot  water,  the 
bowl  with  the  strictly  symmetrical  lumps  of  sugar,  three 
of  which  go  to  this  large  tumbler,  and  the  cut  crystal 
decanter  of  pure  Glenlivet.  The  custom  has  great  ad- 
vantages, but  it  certainly  does  not  conduce  to  the  safe 
driving  of  the  dogcart  home  again. 


EAELY   DAYS   IN   LONDON  57 

Here  is  a  specimen  of  a  purely  Scotch  Bill  of  Fare,  for 
some  especially  noteworthy  occasion: 

BILL    OF    FARE 
A  wee  drappie  Talisher. 


Callipee  Broth.  Hotch  Potch. 


Saumon  a  la  Pottit  Heed.        Pomphlet  h  la  Newhaven. 


Anither  Drappie. 


Mince  Collops.  Doo  Tairt. 


Haggis. 


An  Eek. 


Stuffed  Bubbly  Jocks  an  Hawm. 

Gigot  of  Mutton  wi'  red  cur  ran  jeelie. 

Sheep's  Heed  an'  Trotters. 


Tatties  Biled  &  Champit. 

Bashed  Keeps. 

Jist  a  wee  Donal'. 


Glesky  Magistrates.  Sma'  peas. 


Grozet  Pies.  Aiple  Dumplins. 


Ice  Puddin  wi'  cookies. 


A  Guid  Dram  to  keep  a'  doon. 

When  I  have  a  house  of  my  own  I  shall  give  such  a 
dinner  some  day,  and  the  Sassenach  hearts  present  shall 
admit  there  is  no  dinner  like  a  Scotch  one  and  no  whiskey 
like  the  heavenly  Celtic  brew. 

And  now,  au  re  voir, 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 

William  Shakp. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE   DEATH   OF   EOSSETTI 

The  Directors  of  The  Fine  Art  Society  decided  finally 
not  to  organise  the  special  department  of  Engravings  of 
which  William  Sharp  hoped  to  take  charge,  therefore  his 
engagement  fell  through  and  he  was  thrown  on  his  own 
resources.  The  outlook  was  very  serious,  for  He  was 
still  practically  unknown  to  editors  and  publishers;  and 
during  the  following  two  years  he  had  a  hard  fight  with 
circumstances.  No  post  of  any  kind  turned  up  for  him 
and  he  had  to  depend  solely  on  his  pen,  and  for  many 
months  was  practically  penniless;  and  many  a  time  the 
only  food  he  could  afford,  after  a  meagre  breakfast,  was 
hot  chestnuts  bought  from  men  in  the  street. 

I  do  not  care  to  dwell  on  those  days;  I  could  do  so 
little  to  help,  and  by  common  consent  we  hid  the  true 
condition  of  things  from  his  mother  and  mine.  Never- 
theless we  firmly  believed  in  his  "  future " ;  that  with 
persistence  and  patience  —  and  endurance  —  he  would 
"  gain  a  footing  " ;  that  circumstances  were  pushing  him 
into  the  one  career  suited  to  him,  even  if  the  method 
seemed  too  drastic  at  times. 

He  had  already  succeeded  in  having  a  poem  accepted 
occasionally  by  one  or  two  Magazines  and  Weeklies.  In 
1879  Good  Words  published  a  poem  entitled  "  Night," 
and  in  1880  two  Sonnets  on  Schubert's  "Am  Meer." 
The  Examiner  printed  some  Sonnets  and  a  poem  of  fif- 
teen lines.  In  1881  he  contributed  a  long  poem  on  Vic- 
tor Hugo  to  Modern  Thought,  and  in  February  of  1882 
his  Sonnet  "  Spring  Wind  "  was  accepted  by  the  Athe- 
ncdum  and  it  was  afterward  included  in  Hall  Caine's 
Century  of  Sonnets.  Early  the  following  year  he  spent 
a  delightful  week-end  with  Eossetti,  at  Birchington, 
whence  he  wrote  to  me : 

58' 


DANTE   GABRIEL    ROSSET'I'l 


THE   DEATH   OF   EOSSETTI  59 

Feb.  13,  1882. 

"  Just  a  line  to  tell  you  I  am  supremely  content.  Beau- 
tiful sea  views,  steep  '  cavey '  cliffs,  a  delicious  luxuri- 
ous house,  and  nice  company.  By  a  curious  mistake  I 
got  out  at  the  wrong  place  on  Sunday,  and  had  a  long  walk 
with  my  bag  along  the  cliffs  till  I  arrived  rather  tired 
and  hot  at  my  destination.  I  was  surprised  not  to  find 
Hall  Caine  there,  but  it  appeared  he  clearly  understood 
I  was  to  get  out  at  a  different  station  altogether.  I  was 
also  delayed  in  arriving,  as  I  asked  a  countryman  my 
direction  and  he  told  me  to  go  to  the  left — but  from  the 
shape  of  the  coast  I  argued  that  the  right  must  be  the 
proper  way — I  went  to  the  right  in  consequence,  and 
nearly  succeeded  in  going  over  a  cliff's  edge,  while  my 
theory  was  decidedly  vanquished  by  facts.  However  the 
walk  repaid  it.  Oh,  the  larks  yesterday!  It  was  as 
warm  as  June,  and  Rossetti  and  Caine  and  myself  went 
out  and  lay  in  the  grass  (at  least  I  did)  basking  in  the 
sun,  looking  down  on  the  gleaming  sea,  and  hearing 
these  heavenly  incarnate  little  joys  sending  thrills  of 
sweetness,  and  vague  pain  through  all  my  being.  I 
seemed  all  a-quiver  with  the  delight  of  it  all.  And  the 
smell  of  the  wrack!  and  the  cries  of  the  sea-birds!  and 
the  delicious  wash  of  the  incoming  tide !  Oh,  dear  me,  I 
shall  hate  to  go  back  to-morrow.  Caine  is  writing  a 
sonnet  in  your  book.  Watts  is  writing  a  review  for  the 
AthencBum,  Rossetti  is  about  to  go  on  with  painting  his 
Joan  of  Arc,  and  I  am  writing  the  last  lines  of  this  note 
to  you." 

Little  did  he  dream  as  he  shook  hands  with  his  host  on 
the  Monday  morning  that  he  was  bidding  a  last  farewell 
to  his  good  friend. 

Of  that  visit  he  wrote  later : 

"Of  my  most  cherished  memories  is  a  night  at  Birching- 
ton-on-Sea,  in  March,  1882.  It  had  been  a  lovely  day. 
Rossetti  asked  me  to  go  out  with  him  for  a  stroll  on  the 
cliff;  and  though  he  leaned  heavily  and  dragged  his 
limbs  wearily  as  if  in  pain,  he  grew  more  cheerful  as  the 


60  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

simliglit  warmed  him.  The  sky  was  a  cloudless  blue  and 
the  singing  of  at  least  a  score  of  larks  was  wonderful  to 
listen  to.  Everywhere  Spring  odours  prevailed,  with  an 
added  pungency  from  the  sea-wrack  below.  Beyond,  the 
sea  reached  far  to  horizons  of  purple  shaded  azure.  At 
first  I  thought  Eossetti  was  indifferent:  but  this  mood 
gave  way.  He  let  go  my  arm  and  stood  staring  seaward 
silently,  then,  still  in  a  low  tired  voice,  but  with  a  new 
tone  in  it  he  murmured,  *  It  is  beautiful — the  world 
and  life  itself.  I  am  glad  I  have  lived.'  Insensibly 
thereafter  the  dejection  lifted  from  off  his  spirit,  and  for 
the  rest  of  that  day  and  that  evening  he  was  noticeably 
less  despondent. 

"  The  previous  evening  Christina  Eossetti  and  myself 
were  seated  in  the  semi-twilight  in  the  low-roofed  sitting 
room.  She  had  been  reading  to  him  but  he  had  grown 
weary  and  somewhat  fretful.  Not  wishing  to  disturb 
him,  Miss  Eossetti  made  a  sign  to  me  to  come  over  to  the 
window  and  there  drew  my  attention  to  a  quiet  hued  but 
very  beautiful  sunset.  While  we  were  enjoying  it  Eos- 
setti, having  overheard  an  exclamation  of  almost  rap- 
turous delight  from  Christina,  rose  from  his  great  arm- 
chair before  the  fire  and  walked  feebly  to  the  window. 
He  stared  blankly  upon  the  dove-tones  and  pale  ame- 
thyst of  the  sky.  I  saw  him  glance  curiously  at  his  sis- 
ter, and  then  again  long  and  earnestly.  But  at  last  with 
a  voice  full  of  chagrin  he  turned  away  pettishly  saying 
he  could  not  see  what  it  was  we  admired  so  much.  '  It  is 
all  gray  and  gloom,'  he  added ;  nor  would  he  hear  a  word 
to  the  contrary,  so  ignorant  was  he  of  the  havoc  wrought 
upon  his  optic  nerve  by  the  chloral  poison  which  did  so 
much  to  shorten  his  life.  .  .  .  '  Poor  Gabriel,'  Miss  Eos- 
setti said,  '  I  wish  he  could  have  at  least  one  hopeful 
hour  again.'  It  was  with  pleasure  therefore  next  day 
she  heard  of  what  he  had  said  upon  the  cliff,  and  how 
he  had  brightened.  The  evening  that  followed  was  a 
happy  one,  for,  as  already  mentioned  Eossetti  grew  so 
cheerful,  relatively,  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  shadow 
of  death  had  lifted.    What  makes  it  doubly  memorable 


THE   DEATH   OF   EOSSETTI  61 

to  me  is  that  when  I  opened  the  door  for  Miss  Eossetti 
when  she  bade  me  good-night,  she  turned,  took  my  hand 
again,  and  said  in  a  whisper,  '  I  am  so  glad  about  Ga- 
briel, and  grateful.' " 

To  E.  A.  S. : 

11:  4:82. 

".  .  .  After  spending  a  very  pleasant  day  at  Hailey- 
bury  with  Farquharson  [E.  A.  Sharp's  brother]  we  ar- 
rived late  in  London,  and  while  glancing  over  an  evening 
paper  my  eye  suddenly  caught  a  paragraph  which  made 
my  heart  almost  stop.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  read 
it  for  a  long  time,  though  I  knew  it  simply  rechronicled 
the  heading — "  Sudden  Death  of  Mr.  Dante  Gabriel  Eos- 
setti." He  died  on  Sunday  night  at  Birchington.  I  can- 
not tell  you  what  a  grief  this  is  to  me.  He  has  ever 
been  to  me  a  true  friend,  affectionate  and  generous — 
and  to  him  I  owe  more  perhaps  than  to  any  one  after 
yourself.  Apart  from  my  deep  regret  at  the  loss  of  one 
whom  I  so  loved,  I  have  also  the  natural  regret  at  what 
the  loss  of  his  living  friendship  means.  I  feel  as  if  a 
sudden  tower  of  strength  on  which  I  had  greatly  relied 
had  given  way:  for  not  only  would  Eossetti's  house  have 
been  my  own  as  long  as  and  whenever  I  needed,  but  it 
was  his  influence  while  alive  that  I  so  much  looked  to. 
Comparatively  little  known  to  the  public,  his  name  has 
always  been  a  power  and  recommendation  in  itself 
amongst  men  of  letters  and  artists  and  those  who  have 
to  do  with  both  professions.  When  I  recall  all  that  Eos- 
setti has  been  to  me — the  pleasure  he  has  given  me — 
the  encouragement,  the  fellowship — I  feel  very  bitter  at 
heart  to  think  I  shall  never  see  again  the  kindly  gray 
eyes  and  the  massive  head  of  the  great  poet  and  artist. 
He  has  gone  to  his  rest.  It  were  selfish  to  wish  other- 
wise considering  all  things.  .  .  . 

If  I  take  flowers  down,  part  of  the  wreath  shall  be 
from  you.  He  would  have  liked  it  himself,  for  he  knew 
you  through  me,  and  he  knew  I  am  happier  in  this  than 
most  men  perhaps." 


62  WILLIAM    SHARP 

ToE.  A.  S.: 

April  13,  1882. 

"...  I  have  just  returned  (between  twelve  and  one  at 
night)  tired  and  worn  out  with  some  necessary  things 
in  connection  with  Eossetti,  taking  me  first  to  Chelsea, 
then  away  in  the  opposite  direction  to  Euston  Road. 
As  I  go  down  to  Birchington  by  an  early  train,  besides 
having  much  correspondence  to  get  through  after 
breakfast,  I  can  only  write  a  very  short  letter.  I  have 
felt  the  loss  of  my  dear  and  great  friend  more  and  more. 
He  had  weaknesses  and  frailties  within  the  last  six  or 
eight  months  owing  to  his  illness,  but  to  myself  he  was 
ever  patient  and  true  and  affectionate.  A  grand  heart 
and  soul,  a  true  friend,  a  great  artist,  a  great  poet,  I 
shall  not  meet  with  such  another.  He  loved  me,  I  know 
— and  believed  and  hoped  great  things  of  me,  and  within 
the  last  few  days  I  have  learned  hoiv  generously  and 
how  urgently  he  impressed  this  upon  others.  God  knows 
I  do  not  grudge  him  his  long-looked-for  rest,  yet  I  can 
hardly  imagine  London  without  him.  I  cannot  realise  it, 
and  yet  I  know  that  I  shall  never  again  see  the  face 
lighten  up  when  I  come  near,  never  again  hear  the  voice 
whose  mysterious  fascination  was  like  a  spell.  What 
fools  are  those  vain  men  who  talk  of  death :  blinded,  and 
full  of  the  dust  of  corruption.  As  God  lives,  the  soul 
dies  not.  What  though  the  grave  be  silent,  and  the  dark- 
ness of  the  Shadow  become  not  peopled — to  those  eyes 
that  can  see  there  is  light,  light,  light — to  those  ears  that 
can  hear  the  tumult  of  the  disenfranchised,  rejoicing. 
I  am  borne  down  not  with  the  sense  of  annihilation,  but 
with  the  vastness  of  life  and  the  imminence  of  things 
spiritual.  I  know  from  something  beyond  and  out  of  my- 
self that  we  are  now  but  dying  to  live,  that  there  is 
no  death,  which  is  but  as  a  child's  dream  in  a  weary 
night. 

I  am  very  tired.  You  will  forgive  more,  my  dearest 
friend." 


THE   DEATH   OF   ROSSETTI  63 

ToMr.  W.  M.  Rossetti: 

13  Thobnqate  Road, 

SUTHEELAND   GaBDENS,   W., 

15th  April,  1883. 

Dear  Mr.  Rossetti, 

As  your  wife  kindly  expressed  a  wish  that  I  would 
send  you  a  copy  of  the  sonnet  I  left  in  your  brother's 
cofifin  along  with  the  flowers,  I  now  do  so.  It  must  be 
judged  not  as  a  literary  production,  but  as  last  words 
straight  from  the  heart  of  one  who  loved  and  revered 
your  brother.  Yours  very  sincerely, 

William  Sharp. 

To  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

AVE!      MOES    NON   EST! 

True  heart,  great  spirit,  who  hast  sojourn'd  here 
Till  now  the  darkness  rounds  thee,  and  Death's  sea 
Hath  surged  and  ebbed  and  carried  suddenly 

Thy  Soul  far  hence,  as  from  a  stony,  drear, 

And  weary  coast  the  tide  the  wrack  doth  shear; 
Thou  art  gone  hence,  and  though  our  sight  may  be 
Strained  with  a  yearning  gaze,  the  mystery 

Is  mystic  still  to  us:  to  thee,  how  clear! 

0  loved  great  friend,  at  last  the  bahn  of  sleep 

Hath  soothed  thee  into  silence:  it  is  well 

After  life's  long  unrest  to  draw  the  breath 
No  more  on  earth,  but  in  a  slumber  deep. 

Or  joyous  hence  afar,  the  miracle 

Await  when  dies  at  last  imperious  Death. 

W.  s.    - 

Keenly  desirous  of  offering  some  tribute  to  the  memory 
of  Rossetti,  whose  friendship  had  meant  so  much  to  him 
during  the  years  of  struggle  in  London,  William  Sharp 
eagerly  accepted  a  proposal  from  Messrs.  Macmillan  that 
he  should  write  a  biographical  Record  and  appreciation 
of  the  painter-poet,  to  be  produced  within  the  year.  It 
was  begun  in  June,  it  was  his  first  lengthy  attempt  in 
prose  and  attempted  with  little  knowledge  of  the  art  of 
writing ;  but  it  was  written  "  red  hot,"  as  he  used  to  say, 
inspired  by  deep  affection  and  profound  admiration  for 
his  friend.  He  spared  no  pains  to  make  his  story  as 
accurate  as  practicable,  and  visited  the  chief  owners  of 


64  WILLIAM   SHARP 

the  pictures,  photographs  of  which  Rossetti  had  given 
liim.  Several  of  the  later  paintings  he  had  seen  and 
discussed  many  times  in  Rossetti's  studio. 

The  book  divides  itself  naturally  into  two  parts  repre- 
senting the  man  in  his  dual  capacity  as  painter  and  as 
poet,  and  the  author  selected  as  frontispiece  Rossetti's 
most  characteristic  and  symbolic  design  for  his  sonnet 
on  the  sonnet. 

In  his  Diary  of  1890  the  author  refers  to  "  my  first 
serious  effort  in  prose,  my  honest  and  enthusiastic,  and 
indeed  serviceable,  but  badly  written  '  Life  of  Rossetti.'  " 
And  he  tells  that  the  first  two  thirds  were  written  at 
Clynder  on  the  Gareloch  (Argyll),  "in  a  little  cottage 
where  I  stayed  with  my  mother  and  sisters  eight  years 
ago  " ;  and  the  rest  was  written  in  London,  and  published 
in  December. 

"  I  remember  that  the  book  was  finished  one  Decem- 
ber day,  and  so  great  was  the  pressure  I  was  under, 
that,  at  the  end,  I  wrote  practically  without  a  break 
for  thirty-six  hours :  i.  e.,  I  began  immediately  after  an 
early  breakfast,  wrote  all  day  except  half  an  hour  for 
dinner,  and  all  evening  with  less  than  ten  minutes  for 
a  slight  meal  of  tea  and  toast,  and  right  through  the 
night.  About  4  or  5  a.m.  my  fire  went  out,  though  I  did 
not  feel  chilled  till  my  landlady  came  with  my  break- 
fast. By  this  time  I  was  too  excited  to  be  tired,  and 
had  moreover  to  finish  the  book  that  day.  I  was  only  a 
few  minutes  over  breakfast,  which  I  snatched  during 
perusal  of  some  notes,  and  then  buckled  to  again.  I 
wrote  all  day,  eating  nothing.  When  about  7  p.m.  I  came 
to  '  finis,'  I  threw  down  the  pen  from  my  chilled  and 
cramped  fingers:  walked  or  rather  staggered  into  the 
adjoining  bedroom,  but  was  asleep  before  I  could  un- 
dress beyond  removal  of  my  coat  and  waistcoat.  (What 
hundreds  of  times  I  have  been  saved  weariness  and  bad 
headaches,  how  often  I  have  been  preserved  from  col- 
lapse of  a  more  serious  kind,  by  my  rare  faculty  of 
being  able  to  sleep  at  will  at  any  time,  however  busy, 
and  for  even  the  briefest  intervals — ten  minutes  or  less.) 


THE   DEATH   OF   EOSSETTI  65 

"  For  three  weeks  before  this  I  had  been  overworking 
and  I  was  quite  exhausted,  partly  from  want  of  sufficient 
nourishment.  It  was  the  saving  of  my  brain,  therefore, 
that  I  slept  fourteen  hours  without  a  break,  and  after 
a  few  hours  of  tired  and  dazed  wakefulness  again  fell 
into  a  prolonged  slumber,  from  which  I  awoke  fresh  and 
vigorous  in  mind  and  body." 

The  most  interesting  letter  which  he  received  during 
the  interval  of  the  writing  was  one  from  Eobert  Brown- 
ing, in  answer  to  an  inquiry  concerning  a  letter  written 
years  earlier  by  Eossetti  to  Browning,  to  know  if  the  au- 
thor of  Paracelsus  was  also  the  author  of  Pauline.  Eos- 
setti once  told  "William  Sharp  that  it  was  "  on  the  fore- 
noon of  the  day  when  the  Burden  of  Nineveh  was  begun, 
conceived  rather,"  that  he  read  this  story  (at  the  Brit- 
ish Museum)  "  of  a  soul  by  the  soul's  ablest  historian." 
So  delighted  was  Eossetti  with  it,  and  so  strong  his  opin- 
ion that  Pauline  was  by  Browning,  that  he  wrote  to  that 
poet,  then  in  Florence,  for  confirmation.  Mr.  Browning, 
in  his  reply — which  I  quote  from  my  husband's  mono- 
graph on  Browning — gave  the  following  particulars  of 
the  incident: 

St,  Piebee  de  Chabtkeuse, 

Aug.  22,  1882. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

Eossetti's  Pauline  letter  concerning  which  you  inquire 
was  addressed  to  me  at  Florence,  more  than  thirty  years 
ago :  I  must  have  preserved  it,  but,  even  were  I  at  home, 
should  be  unable  to  find  it  without  troublesome  search- 
ing. It  was  to  the  effect  that  the  writer,  personally  and 
altogether  unknown  to  me,  had  come  upon  a  poem  in  the 
British  Museum,  which  he  copied  the  whole  of,  from  its 
being  not  otherwise  procurable,  that  he  judged  it  to  be 
mi  Tie,  but  could  not  be  sure,  and  wished  me  to  pro- 
nounce on  the  matter — which  I  did.  A  year  or  two  after, 
I  had  a  visit  in  London  from  Mr.  Allingham  and  a  friend 
— who  proved  to  be  Eossetti:  when  I  heard  he  was  a 
painter  I  insisted  on  calling  on  him,  though  he  declared 
he  had  nothing  to  show  me — which  was  far  enough  from 


66  WILLIAM    SHARP 

the  case.  Subsequently  on  another  of  my  returns  to  Lon- 
don, he  painted  ray  portrait:  not,  I  fancy,  in  oils  but 
water  colours — and  finished  it  in  Paris  shortly  after: 
this  must  have  been  in  the  year  when  Tennyson  pub- 
lished "  Maud,"  unless  I  mistake :  for  I  remember  Tenny- 
son reading  the  poem  one  evening,  while  Rossetti  made 
a  rapid  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  him,  very  good,  from  an 
unobserved  corner  of  vantage — which  I  still  possess  and 
duly  value.    This  was  before  Rossetti's  marriage. 

I  hope  that  these  particulars  may  answer  your  pur- 
pose ;  and  beg  you  to  believe  me,  dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

Yours  very  truly, 

Robert  Browning. 

The  young  biographer  wrote  to  every  one  who  he 
thought  might  possess  drawings  or  paintings  by  Rossetti 
— and  among  others  he  applied  to  Tennyson.  The  Poet 
Laureate  replied: 

Aldwoeth,  Haslemeee, 

Oct.  12,  1882. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  have  neither  drawing  nor  painting  by  Rossetti.  I 
am  sorry  for  it,  for  some  of  his  work  which  I  have  seen 
elsewhere  I  have  admired  very  much;  nor  (as  far  as  I 
know)  have  I  any  letter  from  him,  nor  have  I  the  slight- 
est recollection  of  his  being  present  when  I  was  "  read- 
ing the  proof  sheets  of  Maud." 

My  acquaintance  with  him  was  in  fact  but  an  acquaint- 
ance, not  an  "  intimacy,"  though  I  would  willingly  have 
known  something  more  of  so  accomplished  an  artist. 
Wishing  all  success  to  your  Memorial  of  him, 

I  am. 

Faithfully  yours, 

A.  Tennyson. 

The  book  met  with  immediate  success;  it  was  recog- 
nised that  the  work  was  "  one  of  no  ordinary  difficulty," 
that  the  author  "brought  fairness  and  critical  acumen 
to  his  task,"  "  truest  enthusiasm  and  perseverance  that 


THE   DEATH   OF   ROSSETTI  67 

nothing  can  daunt;  that  by  reason  of  his  friendship  he 
had  unusual  insight  into  the  history  and  work  of  Ros- 
setti,"  and  "  a  critic  of  Art  and  a  writer  of  poems  he  is 
thus  further  to  be  respected  in  what  he  has  to  say." 
Only  three  letters  are  in  my  possession  of  the  many  he 
received  from  friends  of  his  own,  or  of  the  dead  poet; 
two  are  from  Walter  Pater  with  whom  he  had  recently 
become  acquainted;  and  the  other  from  Christina  Ros- 
setti : 

30  TOBBINGTON  SQUARE. 

Deae  Mr.  Shaep, 

Thank  you  with  warm  thanks  from  my  Mother  and  my- 
self for  your  precious  gift.  She  has  already  and  with 
true  pleasure  perused  Chapter  I.  /  have  but  glanced 
here  and  there  as  yet  but  with  an  appetite  for  the  feast  to 
come.  I  shall  be  both  fortunate  and  unfortunate  if  I 
find  occasion  for  the  marginal  notes  you  want — fortu- 
nate if  even  thus  I  can  be  of  use :  but  I  will  rather  wish 
myse]f  a  very  narrow  field  for  strictures.  Allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  on  the  binding  of  the  well-known  mono- 
gram and  crest — a  pretty  point  which  catches  and  grati- 
fies the  eye  at  a  first  glance.  I  figure  so  amiably  in  con- 
nection with  your  frontispiece  that  I  may  reasonably 
regret  having  brought  nothing  to  the  transaction  (in  real- 
ity) beyond  good  will. 

Very  truly  yours, 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 

This  letter  was  received  while  the  book  was  in  prepa- 
ration : 

2  Bbadnob  Eoad,  Oxfobd, 

Nov.  4,  1882. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

(I  think  we  have  known  each  other  long  enough  to  drop 
the  "  Mr.")  I  read  your  letter  with  great  pleasure,  and 
thank  you  very  much  for  it.  Your  friendly  interest  in 
my  various  essays  I  value  highly.  I  have  really  worked 
hard  for  now  many  years  at  these  prose  essays,  and  it  is  a 


68  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

real  encouragement  to  hear  such  good  things  said  of  them 
by  one  of  the  most  original  of  young  English  poets.  It 
will  be  a  singular  pleasure  to  me  to  be  connected,  in  a 
sense,  in  your  book  on  Rossetti,  with  one  I  admired  so 
greatly.  I  wish  the  book  all  the  success  both  the  subject 
and  the  writer  deserve.  You  encourage  me  to  do  what 
I  have  sometimes  thought  of  doing,  when  I  have  got 
on  a  little  further  with  the  work  I  have  actually  on  hand 
— viz.  to  complete  the  various  series  of  which  the  papers 
I  have  printed  in  the  Fortnightly  are  parts.  The  list  you 
sent  me  is  complete  with  the  exception  of  an  article  on 
Coleridge  in  the  Westminster  of  January,  1866,  with 
much  of  which,  both  as  to  matter  and  manner,  I  should 
now  be  greatly  dissatisfied.  That  article  is  concerned 
with  S.  T.  C.'s  prose ;  but,  corrected,  might  be  put  along- 
side of  the  criticism  on  his  verse  which  I  made  for 
Ward's  "  English  Poets."  I  can  only  say  that  should  you 
finish  the  paper  you  speak  of  on  these  essays,  your  criti- 
cal approval  will  be  of  great  service  to  me  with  the  read- 
ing public.  I  find  I  have  by  me  a  second  copy  of  the 
paper  on  Giorgione,  revised  in  print,  which  I  send  by 
this  post,  and  hope  you  will  kindly  accept.  It  was  re- 
printed some  time  ago  when  I  thought  of  collecting  that 
and  other  papers  into  a  volume.  I  am  pleased  to  hear 
that  you  remember  with  pleasure  your  flying  visit  to 
Oxford ;  and  hope  you  will  come  for  a  longer  stay  in  term 
time  early  next  year.  At  the  end  of  this  month  I  hope 
to  leave  for  seven  weeks  in  Italy,  chiefly  at  Eome,  where 
I  have  never  yet  been.  We  went  to  Cornwall  for  our 
summer  holiday,  but  though  that  country  is  certainly 
very  singular  and  beautiful,  I  found  there  not  a  tithe  of 
the  stimulus  to  one's  imagination  which  I  have  sometimes 
experienced  in  quite  unrenowned  places  abroad. 

I  should  be  delighted  with  a  copy  of  the  Eossetti  vol- 
ume from  yourself;  but  it  is  a  volume  I  should  have  in 
any  case  purchased,  and  I  hope  it  may  appear  in  time  to 
be  my  companion  on  my  contemplated  journey. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Walter  H.  Pater. 


THE   DEATH   OF   ROSSETTI  69 

2  Beadnob  Road, 
Jan.  15,  1883. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

Thank  you  very  sincerely  for  the  copy  of  your  book, 
with  the  fine  impression  of  the  beautiful  frontispiece, 
which  reached  me  yesterday.  One  copy  of  the  book  I 
had  already  obtained  through  a  bookseller  in  Rome,  and 
read  it  there  with  much  admiration  of  its  wealth  of  ideas 
and  expression,  and  its  abundance  of  interesting  infor- 
mation. Thank  you  also  sincerely,  for  the  pleasant 
things  you  have  said  about  myself;  all  the  pleasanter 
for  being  said  in  connection  with  the  subject  of  Rossetti, 
whose  genius  and  work  I  esteemed  so  greatly.  I  am 
glad  to  hear  that  the  book  is  having  the  large  sale  it  de- 
serves. Your  letter  of  December  24th,  was  forwarded  to 
me  at  Rome,  with  the  kind  invitation  I  should  have  been 
delighted  to  accept  had  it  been  possible,  and  which  I  hope 
you  will  let  me  profit  by  some  other  time.  Then,  I  heard 
from  my  sisters,  of  your  search  for  me  in  London,  and 
was  very  sorry  to  have  missed  you  there.  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  see  you  here;  and  can  give  you  a  bed  at 
Brasenose,  where  I  shall  reside  this  term. 

Thank  you  again  for  the  pleasure  your  book  has  given, 
and  will  give  me,  in  future  reading.  Excuse  this  hurried 
letter,  and 

Believe  me. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Walter  Pater. 


It  had  been  William  Sharp's  intention  to  rewrite  his 
Study  on  Rossetti;  for  in  later  years  he  was  very  dis- 
satisfied with  the  early  book,  and  considered  his  judg- 
ment to  have  been  immature.  He  had  indeed  arranged 
certain  publishing  preliminaries ;  and  he  wrote  the  dedi- 
catory chapter;  but  the  book  itself  was  untouched  save 
one  or  two  opening  sentences.  For  this  project,  with 
many  others  planned  by  William  Sharp,  was  laid  aside 
when  the  more  intimate,  the  more  imperative  work  put 
forward  under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Fiona  Macleod  "  be- 


70  WILLIAM    SHARP 

gan  to  shape  itself  in  his  brain.  In  his  dedication  to 
Walter  Pater  (the  only  portion  of  the  book  that  was 
finished),  the  author  explains  his  reasons  for  wishing  to 
write  a  second  Study  of  the  painter-poet.  He  describes 
the  new  material  available,  and  relates  that  in  Ros- 
setti's  lifetime  it  was  planned  that  a  "  Life  should  be 
written  by  Philip  Bourke  Marston  and  myself,  primarily 
for  publication  in  America.  Rossetti  took  a  humorous 
interest  in  the  scheme,  and  often  alluded  to  it  in  notes 
or  conversation  as  the  Bobbies'  book  (a  whimsical  sub- 
stitute for  the  Boston  firm  of  Roberts  Brothers,  whom  we 
intended  to  honour  with  our  great — unwritten — work) : 
but  nothing  came  of  the  project.  .  .  .  Rossetti  was 
eager  to  help  Marston;  so  he  said  he  was  charmed  with 
the  idea,  and  promised  to  give  all  the  aid  in  his  power. 
A  week  later  he  told  me  that  '  there  was  no  good  in  it,' 
and  that  '  it  had  better  drop ' :  but,  instead  he  suggested 
that  he  should  write  an  article  upon  Marston  and  his 
poetry  for  Harper's,  or  Scribner's,  if  it  were  more  ex- 
pedient that  such  an  article  should  appear  in  an  Amer- 
ican periodical,  or,  if  preferred,  for  some  important 
Quarterly  here. 

"  But  you,  cognizant  as  you  are  of  much  of  this  detail, 
will  readily  understand  and  agree  with  me  when  I  say 
that  no  really  adequate  portrait  of  Rossetti  is  likely  to 
be  given  to  us  for  many  years  to  come.  Possibly  never : 
for  his  was  a  nature  wrought  of  so  many  complexities, 
his  a  life  developed  perplexedly  by  such  divers  ele- 
ments, that  he  will  reappear,  for  those  who  come  after 
us,  not  in  any  one  portraiture  but  as  an  evocation  from 
many.  .  .  . 

"  Of  all  that  has  been  written  of  Rossetti's  genius  and 
achievement  in  poetry  nothing  shows  more  essential  in- 
sight, is  of  more  striking  and  enduring  worth,  than  the 
essay  by  yourself,  included  in  your  stimulating  and  al- 
ways delightful  Appreciations.  You,  more  than  any  one, 
it  seems  to  me,  have  understood  and  expressed  the  secret 
of  his  charm.  And  though  you  have  not  written  also  of 
Rossetti  the  painter,  I  know  of  no  one  who  so  well  and 


THE   DEATH   OF   KOSSETTI  71 

from  the  first  perceived  just  wherein  lies  his  innate 
power,  his  essential  significance. 

"  Years  ago,  in  Oxford,  how  often  we  talked  these  mat- 
ters over !  I  have  often  recalled  one  evening,  in  particu- 
lar, often  recollected  certain  words  of  yours :  and  never 
more  keenly  than  when  I  have  associated  them  with  the 
early  work  of  Rossetti,  in  both  arts,  but  preeminently  in 
painting :  '  To  my  mind  Rossetti  is  the  most  significant 
man  among  us.  More  torches  will  be  lit  from  his  flame — 
or  torches  lit  at  his  flame — than  perhaps  even  enthusi- 
asts like  yourself  imagine.' 

"  We  are  all  seeking  a  lost  Eden.  This  ideal  Beauty 
that  we  catch  glimpses  of,  now  in  morning  loveliness,  now 
in  glooms  of  tragic  terror,  haunts  us  by  day  and  night, 
in  dreams  of  waking  and  sleeping — nay,  whether  or  not 
we  will,  among  the  littlenesses  and  exigencies  of  our 
diurnal  affairs.  It  may  be  that,  driven  from  the  Eden 
of  direct  experience,  we  are  being  more  and  more  forced 
into  taking  refuge  within  the  haven  guarded  by  our 
dreams.  To  a  few  only  is  it  given  to  translate,  with  rare 
distinction  and  excellence,  something  of  this  manifold 
message  of  Beauty — though  all  of  us  would  fain  be,  with 
your  Marius,  '  of  the  number  of  those  who  must  be  made 
perfect  by  the  love  of  visible  beauty.'  Among  these  few, 
in  latter  years  in  this  country,  no  one  has  wrought  more 
exquisitely  for  us  than  Rossetti. 

"  To  him,  and  to  you  and  all  who  recreate  for  us  the 
things  we  have  vaguely  known  and  loved,  or  surmised 
only,  or  previsioned  in  dreams,  we  owe  what  we  can 
never  repay  save  by  a  rejoicing  gratitude.  Our  own 
Eden  may  be  irrecoverable,  its  haunting  music  never  be 
nearer  or  clearer  than  a  vanishing  echo,  yet  we  have  the 
fortunate  warranty  of  those  whose  guided  feet  have  led 
them  further  into  the  sunlit  wilderness,  who  have  re- 
peated to  us,  as  with  hieratic  speech,  what  they  have 
seen  and  heard. 

"  *  From  time  to  time,'  wrote  Rossetti  in  one  of  those 
early  prose  passages  of  his  which  are  so  consecrated  by 
the  poetic  atmosphere — '  from  time  to  time,  however,  a 


72  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

poet  or  a  painter  has  caught  the  music  (of  that  garden) ^ 
and  strayed  in  through  the  close  stems:  the  spell  is  on 
his  hand  and  his  lips  like  the  sleep  of  the  Lotus-eaters, 
and  his  record  shall  be  vague  and  fitful ;  yet  will  we  be  in 
waiting,  and  open  our  eyes  and  our  ears,  for  the  broken 
song  has  snatches  of  an  enchanted  harmony,  and  the 
glimpses  are  glimpses  of  Eden.'  " 

It  was  during  the  preparation  of  this  early  book  that 
the  first  volume  of  William  Sharp's  poems  was  published 
— too  late  however  to  be  welcomed  by  either  of  the  two 
friends  who  had  taken  so  keen  an  interest  in  its  growth : 
Eossetti,  to  whom  all  the  poems  had  been  read — and 
John  Elder  to  whom  it  was  originally  dedicated.  It  is 
entitled  The  Euynan  Inheritance;  Motherhood;  Tran- 
scripts from  Nature  (Elliot  Stock),  and  contains  a  prefa- 
tory poem,  and  last  lines  dedicated  to  myself. 

"  The  Human  Inheritance  "  is  a  long  poem  in  four 
cycles — the  Inheritance  of  Childhood,  Youth,  Manhood 
and  Womanhood,  and  Old  Age,  and  was  an  expression  of 
his  belief  that  the  human  being  should  fearlessly  reach 
out  to  every  experience  that  each  period  might  have  to 
offer.  Eager,  and  intensely  alive,  the  poet  thirsted  till 
his  last  breath  after  whatever  might  broaden  and  deepen 
his  knowledge,  his  understanding,  his  enjoyment  of  life. 

The  second  long  poem,  "  The  New  Hope :  a  Vision  of 
the  Travail  of  Humanity,"  was  especially  connected  with 
John  Elder,  the  outcome  of  many  talks  and  letters  con- 
cerning the  purport  of  the  Travail  of  Humanity — con- 
cerning a  belief  they  both  held  that  a  great  new  spiritual 
awakening  is  imminent  that 

..."  the  one  great  Word 
That  spake,  shall  wonderfully  again  be  heard  "  .  .  • 

To  "  Motherhood  "  allusion  has  been  made  in  one  or 
two  letters. 

Notwithstanding  that  some  of  the  critics  predicted 
that  the  new  name  was  destined  to  become  conspicu- 
ous, it  was  not  by  these  poems,  but  by  the  Life  of 


THE   DEATH   OF   EOSSETTI  73 

Eossetti  that  the  real  impetus  was  given  to  his  literary 
fortunes  and  emphasised  the  fact  of  his  existence  to  pub- 
lishers and  the  reading  public.  But  to  the  poet  himself 
— and  to  me — the  publication  of  the  book  of  poems  was  a 
great  event.  We  looked  upon  it  as  the  beginning  of  the 
true  work  of  his  life,  toward  the  fulfilment  of  which  we 
were  both  prepared  to  make  any  sacrifice. 

I  have  a  few  letters  relating  to  this  volume  of  poems, 
and  append  the  three  which  the  recipient  especially  cared 
to  preserve: 

2  Bbadmoee  Road, 

July  30th. 

My  deab  Shaep, 

Since  you  have  been  here  I  have  been  reading  your 
poems  with  great  enjoyment.  The  presence  of  philo- 
sophical, as  in  "  The  New  Hope  "  and  of  such  original, 
and  at  the  same  time  perfectly  natural  motives  as 
"  Motherhood "  is  certainly  a  remarkable  thing  among 
younger  English  poets,  especially  when  united  with  a 
command  of  rhythmical  and  verbal  form  like  yours.  The 
poem  "  Motherhood  "  is  of  course  a  bold  one ;  but  it  ex- 
presses, as  I  think,  with  perfect  purity,  a  thought,  which 
all  who  can  do  so  are  the  better  for  meditating  on.  The 
"  Transcripts  from  Nature "  seem  to  me  precisely  all, 
and  no  more  than  (and  just  how  is  the  test  of  excellence 
in  such  things)  what  little  pictures  in  verse  ought  to  be. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Walter  Patee. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

I  have  really  not  much  to  say  about  your  poems.  That 
you  are  of  the  tribe  or  order  of  prophets,  I  certainly  be- 
lieve. What  rank  you  may  take  in  that  order  I  cannot 
guess.  But  the  essential  thing  is  that  you  are  the  thing 
poet,  and  being  such  I  doubt  much  whether  talk  about 
your  gift  and  what  you  ought  to  do  with  it  will  help  you 
at  all. 

In  "  Motherhood  "  I  think  you  touch  the  highest  point 
in  the  volume.    The  "  Transcripts  from  Nature  " — some 


74  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

of  them — give  me  the  feel  in  my  nerves  of  the  place  and 
hour  you  describe,  I  like  the  form  but  I  think  you  have 
written  a  sufficient  mass  in  this  form,  and  that  future 
rispetti  ought  to  be  rare,  that  is,  whenever  it  is  necessary 
and  right  to  express  yourself  in  that  form.  (It  is  harder 
to  take  in  many  in  succession  than  even  sonnets.)  The 
longer  poems  seem  to  me  as  decisively  the  poetry  of  a 
poet  as  the  others,  but  they  seem  not  so  successful  (while 
admirable  ia  many  pages  and  in  various  ways). 

I  believe  a  beautiful  action,  beautifully  if  somewhat 
severely  handled,  would  bring  out  your  highest.  I  wish 
you  had  some  heroic  old  Scotch  story  to  brood  over  and 
make  live  while  you  are  in  Scotland. 

I   look   forward   with   much   interest   to    your    Pre- 

Raphaelism  and  Eossetti. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Edwakd  Dowden. 

Sept.  6,  1882. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

...  I  came  abroad  and  brought  your  book  with  me.  I 
have  read  it  again  through  among  the  mountains  and 
have  found  much  to  admire  and  more  than  like  in  it ;  so 
that  the  hours  I  passed  in  reading  it  are  and  will  be  pleas- 
ant hours  to  remember.  If  I  may  venture  a  criticism  it  is 
that  nature  occupies  more  than  three  fourths  of  the  Emo- 
tion of  the  Book,  and  not  Humanity,  and  even  the  pas- 
sion and  childhood  and  youth,  and  later  love  and  age — 
and  all  passions  are  painted  iu  terms  of  Nature,  and 
through  her  moods.  It  pleases  me,  for  I  care  more  for 
Nature  myself  when  I  am  not  pressed  on  by  human  feel- 
mg,  than  I  do  for  Man,  but  an  artist  ought  to  love  Man 
more  than  Nature,  and  should  write  about  Him  for  his 
own  sake.  It  won't  do  to  become  like  the  being  in  the 
"  Palace  of  Art."  It  will  not  do  either  to  live  in  a  Palace 
of  Nature,  alone.  But  all  this  is  more  a  suggestion  than 
an  objection,  and  it  is  partly  suggested  to  me  at  first  by 
the  fact  that  the  poem  in  the  midst  of  The  Human  In- 
heritance, Cycle  III,  is  the  nearest  to  the  human  heart 


THE   DEATH   OF   EOSSETTI  75 

and  yet  the  least  well  written  of  all  the  cycles — at  least 
so  it  seems  to  me.  I  like  exceedingly  "  The  Tides  of 
Venice."  It  seems  to  me  to  come  nearer  the  kind  of  poem 
in  which  the  Poet's  Shuttle  weaves  into  one  web  Nature 
and  Humanity  and  the  close  is  very  solemn  and  noble. 

You  asked  me  to  do  a  critic's  part.  It  is  a  part  I  hate, 
and  I  am  not  a  critic.  But  I  say  what  I  say  for  the  sake 
of  men  and  women  whom  you  may  help  through  the  giv- 
ing of  high  pleasure  even  more  than  you  help  them  in 
this  book. 

With  much  sympathy  and  admiration, 

I  am  yours  most  sincerely, 

Stopfoed  a.  Brooke. 

Two  other  deaths  occurred  in  this  year,  and  made  a 
profound  impression  on  the  young  writer.  I  quote  his 
own  words: 

"  It  was  in  1882  also  that  another  friend,  to  whom 
Philip  Marston  had  also  become  much  attached — at- 
tracted in  the  first  instance  by  the  common  bond  of 
unhappiness — died  under  peculiarly  distressing  circum- 
stances. Philip  Marston  and  myself  were,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  the  last  of  his  acquaintances  to  see  him  alive. 
Thomson  had  suffered  such  misery  and  endured  such 
hopelessness,  that  he  had  yielded  to  intemperate  habits, 
including  a  frequent  excess  in  the  use  of  opium.  He  had 
come  back  from  a  prolonged  visit  to  the  country,  where 
all  had  been  well  with  him,  but  through  over  confidence 
he  had  fallen  a  victim  again  immediately  on  his  return. 
For  a  few  weeks  his  record  is  almost  a  blank.  When 
the  direst  straits  were  reached,  he  so  far  reconquered 
his  control  that  he  felt  able  to  visit  one  whose  sympathy 
and  regard  had  stood  all  tests.  Marston  soon  real- 
ised that  his  friend  was  mentally  distraught,  and  en- 
dured a  harrowing  experience,  into  the  narrative  of 
which  I  do  not  care  to  enter. 

"  I  arrived  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  found  Philip  in 
a  state  of  nervous  perturbation.  Thomson  was  lying 
down  on  the  bed  in  the  adjoining  room :  stooping  I  caught 


76  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

his  whispered  words  that  he  was  dying ;  upon  which  I  lit 
a  match,  and  in  the  sudden  glare  beheld  his  white  face  on. 
the  blood-stained  pillow. 

"He  had  burst  one  or  more  blood-vessels,  and  the  hasm- 
orrhage  was  dreadful.  Some  time  had  to  elapse  before 
anything  could  be  done;  ultimately  with  the  help  of  a 
friend  who  came  in  opportunely,  poor  Thomson  was  car- 
ried downstairs,  and  having  been  placed  in  a  cab,  was 
driven  to  the  adjoining  University  Hospital.  He  did  not 
die  that  night,  nor  when  Marston  and  I  went  to  see  him 
in  the  ward  next  day  was  he  perceptibly  worse,  but  a  few 
hours  after  our  visit  he  passed  away. 

"  Thus  ended  the  saddest  life  with  which  I  have 
ever  come  in  contact — sadder  even  than  that  of  Philip 
Marston,  though  his  existence  was  oftentimes  bitter 
enough  to  endure.  .  .  ." 

The  other  death  was  that  of  Emerson,  whose  writings 
had  been  a  potent  influence  in  the  life-thought  of  the 
young  Scot  from  his  college  days.  Indeed  throughout 
his  life  Emerson's  Essays  were  a  constant  stimulus  and 
refreshment.  "My  Bible,"  as  he  called  the  Volume  of 
Selected  Essays,  accompanied  him  in  all  his  wanderings, 
and  during  the  last  weeks  he  spent  in  Sicily  in  1905  he 
carefully  studied  it  anew  and  annotated  it  copiously. 

On  hearing  of  Emerson's  death  he  wrote  a  poem  in 
memoriam — "  Sleepy  Hollow" — which  was  printed  in  the 
Academy  and  afterward  in  his  second  volume  of  verse 
Earth's  Voices.  According  to  Harper's  Weekly  (3:6: 
1882)  "  No  finer  tribute  has  been  rendered  to  Emerson's 
memory  than  William  Sharp's  beautiful  poem  '  Sleepy 
Hollow.'  And,  as  Earth's  Voices  is  now  out  of  print,  I 
will  quote  it  in  full : 

SLEEPY   HOLLOW 
In  Memoriam:  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

He  sleeps  here  the  untroubled  sleep 

Who  could  not  bear  the  noise  and  moil 
Of  public  life,  but  far  from  toil 

A  happy  reticence  did  keep. 


THE   DEATH   OF   ROSSETTI  77 

With  Nature   only  open,   free: 

Close  by  there  rests  the  magic  mind 

Of  him  who  took  life's  thread  to  wind 
And  weave  some  poor  soul's  mystery 

Of  spirit-life,  and  made  it  live 

A  type  and  wonder  for  all  days; 

No  sweeter  soul  e'er  trod  earth's  ways 
Than  he  who  here  at  last  did  give 

His  body  back  to  earth  again. 

And  now  at  length  beside  them  lies  * 

One  great  and  true  and  nobly  wise — 
A  King  of  Thought,  whose  spotless  reign 

The  overwhelming  years  that  come 

And  drown  the  trash  and  dross  and  slime 

Shall  keep  a  record  of  till  Time 
Shall  cease,  and  voice  of  man  be  dumb. 

At  lasts  he  rests,  whose  high  clear  hope 

Was  wont  on  lofty  wings  to  scan 

The  future  destinies  of  man — 
Who  saw  the  Race  through  darkness  grope. 

Through  mists  and  error,  till  at  last 
The  looked-for  light,  the  longed-for  age 
Should  dawn  for  peasant,  prince,  and  sage, 

And  centuries  of  night  be  past. 

Thy  rest  is  won:  O  loyal,  brave. 

Wise  soul,  thy  spirit  is  not  dead — 

Thy  wing'd  words  far  and  wide  have  fled, 

Undying,  they  shall  find  no  grave. 

•Thoreau  and  Hawthorne. 


CHAPTER   V 

FIEST   VISIT   TO    ITALY 

"  After  Rossetti's  death,  I  wrote,"  William  Sharp  has 
related,  "  to  the  commission  of  Messrs.  Macmillan,  a  rec- 
ord of  his  achievements  in  the  two  arts  of  literature  and 
poetry,  my  first  and  of  course  immature  attempt  at  a 
book  of  prose.  I  had  also  written  a  book  of  poems, 
which,  however,  did  not  attract  much  attention,  though 
it  had  the  honour  of  a  long  and  flattering  review 
in  the  Athenmum.  Happily,  it  seems  to  have  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  the  editor  of  Harper's  Magazine, 
for  some  time  afterward  I  received  a  letter  from  him 
asking  me  to  let  him  see  any  poems  I  had  by  me.  I  sent 
him  all  I  had  and  the  matter  passed  from  my  mind. 
Months  went  by,  and  I  remember  how,  one  day,  I  had 
almost  reached  my  last  penny.  In  fact,  my  only  posses- 
sion of  any  value  was  a  revolver,  the  gift  of  a  friend. 
That  night  I  made  up  my  mind  to  enlist  next  morning. 
When  I  got  up  on  the  following  morning  there  were  two 
letters  for  me.  The  usual  thing,  I  said  to  myself,  notice 
of  '  declined  with  thanks.'  I  shoved  them  into  my 
pocket.  A  little  later  in  the  day,  however,  recollection 
impelled  me  to  open  one  of  the  letters.  It  was  from  the 
editor  of  Harper's,  enclosing  a  cheque  for  forty  pounds 
for  my  few  Transcripts  from  Nature,  little  six-line  poems, 
to  be  illustrated  by  Mr.  Alfred  Parsons,  A.R.A.  That 
money  kept  me  going  for  a  little  time.  Still  it  was  a 
struggle,  and  I  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  my  re- 
sources when  one  day  I  came  across  the  other  letter  I 
had  received  that  morning.  I  opened  and  found  it  to  be 
from  a,  to  me,  unknown  friend  of  one  who  had  known  my 
grandfather.  He  had  heard  from  Sir  Noel  Paton  that  I 
was  inclined  to  the  study  of  literature  and  art.  He  there- 
fore enclosed  a  cheque  for  two  hundred  pounds,  which  I 

78 


WILLIAM    SHARP 
From  a  photograph  taken  in  Rome  in  1883 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  79 

was  to  spend  in  going  to  Italy  to  pursue  my  artistic 
studies.  I  was,  of  course,  delighted  with  the  windfall,  so 
delighted,  indeed,  that  I  went  the  length  of  framing  the 
cheque  and  setting  it  up  in  my  lodgings.  I  tried  to  get 
my  landlord  to  advance  me  the  not  very  ambitious  loan 
of  a  needed  sovereign  on  the  spot,  but  he  only  shook  his 
head  knowingly,  as  if  he  suspected  something.  However, 
at  last,  he  risked  a  pound,  and  I  think  I  spent  most  of  it 
that  afternoon  in  taking  the  landlady  and  her  family  to 
the  pantomime. 

"  Eventually  I  went  to  Italy  and  spent  five  months 
away." 

Thus,  the  year  1883  opened  with  brighter  prospects. 
Not  only  was  it  easier  to  get  articles  accepted  and 
published,  but  William  obtained  the  post  of  London  Art 
Critic  to  The  Glasgoiv  Herald,  to  be  taken  up  in  the 
autumn.  During  his  stay  in  London  he  had  made  a  con- 
tinual study  of  the  Old  Masters,  and  his  connection  with 
The  Fine  Art  Society  had  brought  him  in  touch  with 
modem  work  and  living  artists.  Therefore,  with  the 
opportune  cheque  in  his  pocket  he  decided  to  spend  the 
ensuing  months  in  careful  study  of  pictures  in  Italy. 

He  left  London  at  the  end  of  February,  and  remained 
in  Italy  till  the  end  of  June,  when  he  joined  my  mother 
and  myself  in  the  Ardennes. 

He  went  first  of  all  to  stay  with  an  aunt  of  mine,  Mrs. 
Smillie,  who  had  a  villa  in  the  outskirts  of  Florence. 
From  that  city  and  later  from  Rome  and  Venice  he 
wrote  to  me  the  following  impressions : 

Floeence, 
Wednesday,  14:3:  83. 

..."  Yesterday  morning  I  went  to  Sta.  Maria  Novella, 
and  enjoyed  it  greatly.  It  is  a  splendid  place,  though  on 
a  first  visit  I  was  less  impressed  than  by  Santa  Croce. . . . 

The  monumental  sculpture  is  not  so  fine  as  in  Santa 
Croce,  but  on  the  other  hand  there  are  some  splendid 
paintings  and  frescoes — amongst  others  Cimabue's  fa- 
mous picture  of  the  Virgin  seated  on  a  throne.  I  ad- 
mired some  frescoes  by  Fillipino  Lippi — also  those  in  the 


80  WILLIAM   SHARP 

Choir  by  Ghirlandajio :  in  the  Capella  dei  Strozzi  (to 
the  left)  I  saw  the  famous  frescoes  of  Orcagna,  the  In- 
ferno and  Paradiso.  They  greatly  resemble  the  same 
subjects  by  the  same  painter  in  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa. 
What  a  horrible  imagination,  poisoned  by  horrible  super- 
stitions, these  old  fellows  had:  his  Paradise,  while  in 
some  ways  finely  imagined,  is  stiff  and  unimpressive,  and 
his  Inferno  simply  repellent.  It  is  strange  that  religious 
art  should  have  in  general  been  so  unimaginative.  The 
landscapes  I  care  most  for  here  are  those  of  the  early 
Giottesque  and  pre-Raphaelite  painters — they  are  often 
very  beautiful — for  the  others,  there  is  more  in  Turner 
than  in  them  all  put  together.  .  .  ." 

Florence,  18:3:  83. 

".  .  .  Well,  yesterday  after  lunch  I  went  to  the  Chiesa 
del  Carmine,  and  was  delighted  greatly  with  the  famous 
frescoes  of  Masaccio,  which  I  studied  for  an  hour  or 
more  with  great  interest.  He  was  a  wonderful  fellow  to 
have  been  the  first  to  have  painted  movement,  for  his 
figures  have  much  grace  of  outline  and  freedom  of  pose. 
Altogether  I  have  been  more  struck  by  Masaccio  than 
by  any  other  artist  save  Michel  Angelo  and  Leonardo 
da  Vinci.  If  he  hadn't  died  so  young  (twenty-seven)  I  be- 
lieve he  would  have  been  amongst  the  very  first  in  actual 
accomplishment.  He  did  something,  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  for  many  others  more  famous  than  himself, 
who  merely  duplicated  unimaginative  and  stereotyped 
religious  ideals.  .  .  . 

Yesterday  being  Holy  Thursday  we  went  to  several 
Churches  and  in  the  afternoon  and  evening  to  see  the 
Flowers  for  the  Sepulchres.  Very  much  impressed  and 
excited  by  all  I  saw.  I  was  quite  unprepared  for  the 
mystery  and  gloom  of  the  Duomo.  There  were  (com- 
paratively) few  people  there,  as  it  is  not  so  popular 
with  the  Florentines  as  Sta.  Maria  Novella — and  when 
we  entered,  it  was  like  going  into  a  tomb.  Absolute  dark- 
ness away  by  the  western  entrances  (closed),  a  dark 
gloom  elsewhere,  with  gray  trails  of  incense  mist  still 


FIRST   VISIT    TO    ITALY  81 

floating  about  like  wan  spirits,  and  all  the  crosses  and 
monuments  draped  in  black  crape,  and  a  great  canopy 
of  the  same  overhead.  Two  acolytes  held  burning 
tapers  before  only  one  monument,  that  of  the  Pieta  un- 
der the  great  crucifix  in  the  centre  of  the  upper  aisle — 
so  that  the  light  fell  with  startling  distinctness  on  the 
dead  and  mutilated  body  of  Christ.  Not  a  sound  was  to 
be  heard  but  the  wild  chanting  of  the  priests,  and  at  last 
a  single  voice  with  a  strain  of  agony  in  every  tone.  This 
and  the  mystery  and  gloom  and  pain  (for,  strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  you,  I  felt  the  agony  of  the  pierced  hands 
and  feet  myself)  quite  overcame  me,  and  I  burst  into 
tears.  I  think  I  would  have  fainted  with  the  strain  and 
excitement,  if  the  Agony  of  the  Garden  had  not  come  to 
an  end,  and  the  startling  crash  of  the  scourging  com- 
menced, the  slashing  of  canes  upon  the  stones  and  pil- 
lars. I  was  never  so  impressed  before.  I  left,  and  wan- 
dered away  by  myself  along  the  deserted  Lung-Arno, 
still  shivering  with  the  excitement  of  almost  foretasted 
death  I  had  exioerienced,  and  unable  to  control  the  tears 
that  came  whenever  I  thought  of  Christ's  dreadful 
agony.  To-day  (Good  Friday)  the  others  have  gone  to 
church,  but  I  couldn't  have  gone  to  listen  to  platitudes — 
and  don't  know  if  I  can  bring  myself  to  enter  the  catholic 
churches  again  till  the  Crucifixion  is  over,  as  I  dread  a 
repetition  of  last  night's  suffering.  I  shall  probably  go 
to  hear  the  Passion  Music  in  the  church  of  the  Badia  (the 
finest  in  Florence  for  music).  How  I  wish  you  were  with 
me.  .  .  ." 

Florence,  3:4:  83. 
".  .  .  The  last  two  days  have  been  days  of  great  enjoy- 
ment to  me.  First  and  foremost  they  have  been  heavenly 
warm,  with  cloudless  ardent  blue  skies — and  everything 
is  beginning  to  look  fresh  and  green.  Well,  on  Monday 
I  drove  with  Mrs.  Smillie  away  out  of  the  Porta  San 
Frediano  till  we  came  in  sight  of  Scanducci  Alto,  and 
then  of  the  Villa  Farinola.  There  I  left  her,  and  went 
up  through  beautiful  and  English-like  grounds  to  the 


82  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

house,  and  was  soon  ushered  in  to  Ouida's  presence.  I 
found  her  alone,  with  two  of  her  famous  and  certainly 
most  beautiful  dogs  beside  her.  I  found  her  most  pleas- 
ant and  agreeable,  though  in  appearance  somewhat  ec- 
centric owing  to  the  way  in  which  her  hair  was  done,  and 
also  partly  to  her  dress  which  seemed  to  consist  mainly 
of  lace.  A  large  and  beautiful  room  led  into  others,  all 
full  of  bric-a-brac,  and  filled  with  flowers,  books,  statu- 
ettes and  pictures  (poor),  by  herself.  We  had  a  long 
talk  and  she  showed  me  many  things  of  interest.  Then 
other  people  began  to  arrive  (it  was  her  reception  day). 

Before  I  left,  Ouida  most  kindly  promised  to  give  me 
some  introductions  to  use  in  Rome.  Yesterday  she 
drove  in  and  left  three  introductions  for  me  which  may 
be  of  good  service — one  to  Lady  Paget,  wife  of  the  Brit- 
ish Ambassador,  one  to  the  Storys,  and  one  to  Tilton,  the 
sculptor.  .  .  . 

Yesterday  I  perhaps  enjoyed  more  than  I  have  done 
since  I  came  to  Italy.  In  the  morning  Arthur  Lemon,  the 
artist,  called  for  me,  and  being  joined  by  two  others 
(Lomax,  an  artist,  and  his  brother)  we  had  a  boat  carried 
over  the  weir  and  we  got  into  it  at  the  Cascine  and  rowed 
down  stream  past  the  junction  of  the  Mugnone  and  Amo, 
till  Florence  and  Fiesole  were  shut  from  view,  and  the 
hills  all  round  took  on  extra  beauty — Monte  Beni  on  the 
right  and  Monte  Morello  on  the  left  glowing  with  a  haze 
of  heat,  and  beyond  all,  the  steeps  of  Vallombrosa  in 
white — and  Carrara's  crags  also  snow-covered  behind  us. 
We  passed  the  quaint  old  church  and  village  of  San  Ste- 
fano  and  swung  in-shore  to  get  some  wine.  .  .  . 

We  rowed  on  and  in  due  course  came  in  sight  of  Signa. 
We  put  on  a  spurt  (the  four  of  us  were  rowing)  and  as 
we  swept  at  a  swift  rate  below  the  old  bridge  it  seemed  as 
if  half  the  population  came  out  to  see  the  unusual  sight 
of  gentili  signorini  exerting  themselves  so  madly  when 
they  might  be  doing  nothing.  We  got  out  and  said  fare- 
well to  the  picturesque-looking  fellow  who  had  steered  us 
down — had  some  breakfast  at  a  Trattoria,  where  we  had 
small  fish  half -raw  and  steeped  in  oil  (but  not  at  all  bad) 


FIRST   VISIT    TO   ITALY  83 

— kid's  flesh,  and  delicious  sheep' s-milk  cheese,  bread, 
and  light,  red,  Chianti  wiae.  We  then  spent  some  two  or 
three  hours  roaming  about  Signa,  which  is  a  beautifully- 
situated  dreamy  sleepy  old  place — with  beautiful  "  bits  " 
for  artists  every  here  and  there — old  walls  with  lizards 
basking  on  them  in  numbers — and  lovely  views. 

We  came  back  by  Lastia,  a  fine  ancient  walled  town,  and 
arrived  in  Florence  by  open  tramcar  in  the  evening, 
finally  I  had  a  delicious  cold  bath.  The  whole  day  was 
heavenly.  If  the  river  has  not  sunk  too  low  when  I  re- 
turn from  Rome,  Arthur  Lemon  and  some  other  artists 
and  myself  are  going  on  a  sketching  trip  down  the  Arno 
amongst  the  old  villages — the  length  of  Pisa — taking 
about  two  days." 

I  Rome. 

". .  .  It  is  too  soon  to  give  you  my  impressions  of  Rome, 
but  I  may  say  that  they  partly  savour  of  disappointment. 
...  Of  one  thing  however,  I  have  already  seen  enough 
to  convince  me — and  that  is  that  Rome  is  not  for  a  mo- 
ment to  be  compared  to  Florence  in  beauty — neither  in 
its  environs,  its  situation,  its  streets,  nor  its  rivers.  Its 
palaces  may  be  grander,  the  interiors  of  its  churches  more 
magnificent,  its  treasures  of  art  more  wonderful,  but  in 
beauty  it  is  as  far  short  as  London  is  of  Edinburgh. 
But  it  has  one  great  loveliness  which  can  never  tire  and 
which  charms  immeasurably — the  fountains  which  con- 
tinually and  every  here  and  there  splash  all  day  and 
night  in  the  sunlight  or  in  green  grottoes  in  the  courts 
of  villas  and  palaces.  I  am  certain  that  I  should  hate  to 
live  here — I  believe  it  would  kill  me — for  Rome  is  too 
old  to  be  alive — unless  indeed  a  new  Rome  entirely  over- 
shadows the  past.  I  don't  suppose  you  will  quite  under- 
stand, and  I  cannot  explain  just  now — but  so  I  feel.  Flor- 
ence (after  the  cold  has  gone)  is  divine — air,  atmos- 
phere, situation,  memory  of  the  past,  a  still  virile  present 
— but  Rome  is  an  anomaly,  for  what  is  predominant  here 
is  that  evil  mediaeval  Rome  whose  eyes  were  blind  with 
blood  and  lust  and  hate.    Ancient  Rome  is  magnificent — • 


84  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

but  so  little  remains  of  it  that  one  can  no  more  live  in  it 
than  in  Kamak  or  Thebes :  as  for  modem  Rome,  every- 
thing seems  out  of  keeping — so  that  one  has  either  to 
weary  with  the  dull  Metropolitanism  of  the  capital  of 
Italy  or  else  to  enter  into  the  life  of  the  mediaeval 
ages.  .  .  . 

I  expect  and  believe  that  I  shall  find  Rome  beautiful  in 
many  things,  even  as  she  is  already  majestic  and  wonder- 
ful— and  that  the  more  one  becomes  acquainted  with  the 
Eternal  City  the  more  one  loves  or  at  least  reverences 
and  delights  in  it. 

Meanwhile,  however,  with  me,  it  is  more  a  sense  of 
oppression  that  I  experience — a  feeling  as  if  life  would 
become  intolerable  unless  all  sense  of  the  past  were  put 
away.  I  hate  death,  and  all  that  puts  one  in  mind  of 
death — and  after  all  Rome  is  only  a  gigantic  and  richly 
ornamented  tomb.  .  .  . 

How  I  hate  large  cities !  Even  Florence  is  almost  too 
large,  but  there  at  least  one  can  always  escape  into  open 
space  and  air  and  light  and  freedom  at  will — and  the 
mountains  are  close,  and  the  country  round  on  all  sides 
is  fair,  and  the  river  is  beautiful.  Do  not  be  provoked 
with  me  when  I  say  that  Signa,  for  instance,  is  more 
beautiful  to  me  than  Rome — and  that  the  flashing  of 
sunlight  in  the  waters  of  the  fountains,  the  green  of 
Spring  in  the  flowered  fields  and  amongst  the  trees,  and 
the  songs  of  birds  and  the  little  happy-eyed  children, 
mean  infinitely  more  to  me  than  the  grandest  sculptures, 
the  noblest  frescoes,  the  finest  paintings.  This  is  my 
drawback  I  am  afraid,  and  not  my  praise — for  where 
such  hundreds  are  intensely  interested  I  am  often  but 
slightly  so.  Again  and  again  when  I  find  myself  wearied 
to  death  with  sight-seeing  I  call  to  mind  some  loch  with 
the  glory  of  morning  on  it,  some  mountain-side  flecked 
with  trailing  clouds  and  thrilling  me  with  the  bleating  of 
distant  sheep,  the  cries  of  the  cliff  hawks,  and  the  waver- 
ing echoes  of  waterfalls :  or,  if  the  mood,  I  recall  some 
happy  and  indolent  forenoon  in  the  Cascine  or  Monte 
Oliveto  or  in  the  country  paths  leading  from  Bellos- 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  85 

guardo,  where  I  watched  the  shadows  playing  amongst 
the  olives  and  the  dear  little  green  and  grey  lizards 
running  endlessly  hither  and  thither — and  tliinking  of 
these  or  such  as  these  I  grow  comforted.  And  often 
when  walking  in  the  Ca seine  by  myself  at  sunset  I  have 
heard  a  thrush  or  blackbird  call  to  its  mate  through  the 
gloom  of  the  trees,  or  when  looking  toward  Morello  and  the 
Appenine  chain  and  seeing  them  aglow  with  wonderful 
softness,  or,  on  the  Arno's  banks  I  have  seen  the  river 
washing  in  silver  ripples  and  rosy  light  to  the  distant 
crags  of  Carrara  where  the  sun  sank  above  the  Pisan  sea 
— often  at  such  times  my  thrill  of  passionate  and  some- 
times painful  delight  is  followed  by  the  irrepressible 
conviction  that  such  things  are  to  me  more  beautiful, 
more  worthy  of  worship,  more  full  of  meaning,  more 
significant  of  life,  more  excelling  in  all  manner  of  love- 
liness, than  all  the  treasures  of  the  Uflfizi  and  the  Pitti, 
the  Vatican  and  the  Louvre  put  together.  But  whenever 
I  have  expressed  such  a  conviction  I  have  been  told  that 
the  works  of  man  are  after  all  nobler,  in  the  truer  sense 
lovelier,  and  more  spiritually  refreshing  and  helpful — 
and  though  I  do  not  find  them  so,  I  must  believe  that  to 
most  people  such  is  the  case,  perhaps  to  the  infinite 
majority. 

And,  after  all,  why  am  I  to  be  considered  inferior  to 
my  fellows  because  I  love  passionately  in  her  every  mani- 
festation the  mother  who  has  borne  us  all,  and  to  whom 
much  that  is  noblest  in  art  is  due?  .  .  . 

Yet  I  would  not  be  otherwise  after  all.  I  know  some 
things  which  few  know,  some  secrets  of  beauty  in  cloud, 
and  sea  and  earth — have  an  inner  communion  with  all 
that  meets  my  eyes  in  what  we  call  nature,  and  am  rich 
with  a  wealth  which  I  would  not  part  with  for  all  the 
palaces  in  Home.  Do  you  understand  me,  Lill,  in  this? 
.  .  .  Poor  dear!  I  had  meant  to  have  told  her  all 
about  my  visit  to  Orvieto  (alone  worth  coming  to  Italy 
for — if  only  to  behold  the  magnificent  Cathedral)  but 
instead  I  have  only  relieved  my  mind  in  a  kind  of  grum- 
bling. .  .  . 


86  WILLIAM   SHARP 

Wliat  fascinates  me  most  in  Eome  is  the  sculpture. 
Well  as  I  knew  all  the  famous  statues,  from  copies  and 
casts,  some  of  them  were  almost  like  new  revelations — 
especially  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles,  of  which  I  had  never 
seen  a  really  good  copy.  Can't  say,  however,  I  felt  en- 
thusiastic about  the  Capitoline  Venus." 

Rome,  16th  April,  1883. 

"...  I  have  just  come  in  from  the  Campagna  where 
I  have  spent  some  of  the  happiest  hours  I  have  yet  had 
in  Rome.  I  went  for  some  three  miles  across  the  glori- 
ous open  reaches  of  tall  grass,  literally  dense  with  myri- 
ads of  flowers — not  a  vestige  of  a  house  to  be  seen,  not 
a  hint  of  Rome,  nothing  but  miles  upon  miles  of  rolling 
grassy  slopes  till  they  broke  like  a  green  sea  against  the 
blue-purple  hills,  which  were  inexpressibly  beautiful  with 
their  cloud-shadows  athwart  their  sides  and  the  lingering 
snows  upon  their  heights.  There  was  not  a  sound  to  be 
heard  save  those  dear  sounds  of  solitary  places,  the  end- 
less hum  of  insects,  the  cries  of  birds,  the  songs  of  many 
larks,  the  scream  of  an  occasional  hawk,  the  splash  of  a 
stream  that  will  soon  be  dried  up,  and  the  exquisite, 
delicious,  heavenly  music  of  the  wind  upon  the  grass  and 
in  the  infrequent  trees.  .  .  .  And  a  good  fairy  watched 
over  me  to-day,  for  I  was  peculiarly  fortunate  in  seeing 
one  or  two  i^icturesque  things  I  might  have  missed. 
First,  as  I  was  listening  to  what  a  dear  spark  of  a  Untie 
was  whistling  to  its  mate,  I  heard  a  dull  heavy  trampling 
sound,  and  on  going  to  a  neighbouring  rise  I  saw  two 
wild  bulls  fighting.  I  never  realised  before  the  immense 
weight  and  strength  these  animals  have.  Soon  after,  a 
herd  of  them  came  over  the  slope,  their  huge  horns  toss- 
ing in  the  sunlight  and  often  goring  at  each  other.  I 
was  just  beginning  to  fancy  that  I  had  seen  my  last  of 
Rome  (for  I  had  been  warned  against  these  wild  cattle 
especially  at  this  season  when  some  picturesquely-at- 
tired horsemen  on  shaggy  little  steeds  came  up  at  full 
speed,  and  with  dogs  and  long  spears  or  poles  and  fran- 
tic cries  urged  the  already  half  furious,  half  terrified 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  87 

animals  forward.  It  was  delightful  to  witness,  and  if  I 
were  a  painter  I  would  be  glad  to  paint  such  a  scene. 
I  then  went  across  a  brook  and  up  some  slopes  (half 
buried  in  flowers  and  grasses)  till  I  came  to  a  few  black- 
thorn trees  and  an  old  stone-pine,  and  from  there  I  had 
a  divine  view.  The  heat  was  very  great,  but  I  lay  in  a 
pleasant  dreamy  state  with  my  umbrella  stuck  tentwise, 
and  I  there  began  the  first  chapter  of  the  novel  I  told 
you  before  I  left  that  I  intended  writing.  I  had  been 
thinking  over  it  often,  and  so  at  last  began  it:  and  cer- 
tainly few  romances  have  been  begun  in  lovelier  places. 
Suddenly,  through  one  eye,  as  it  were,  1  caught  sight  of 
a  broad  moving  shadow  on  the  slope  beyond  me,  and 
looking  up  I  was  electrified  with  delight  to  see  a  large 
eagle  shining  gold-bronze  in  the  sun.  I  had  no  idea 
(though  I  knew  they  preyed  on  the  lambs,  etc.,  further 
on  the  Campagna  and  in  the  Maremma)  that  they  ever 
came  so  near  the  haunts  of  men.  It  gave  one  loud  harsh 
scream,  a  swoop  of  its  broad  wings,  and  then  sailed 
away  out  of  sight  into  the  blue  haze  beyond  the  farthest 
reaches  I  could  see.  Away  to  the  right  I  saw  a  ruined 
arch,  formerly  some  triumphal  record  no  doubt,  and  near 
it  was  a  shepherd,  clad  in  skins,  tending  his  goats.  No 
other  human  sign — oh,  it  was  delicious  and  has  made 
me  in  love  with  the  very  name  of  Rome.  Such  swarms 
of  lizards  there  were,  and  so  tame,  especially  the  ^reen 
ones,  which  knew  I  wouldn't  hurt  them  and  so  ran  on  to 
my  hands.  The  funniest  fly  too  I  ever  saw  buzzed  up, 
and  sat  on  a  spray  of  blackthorn  blossom  and  looked  at 
me:  I  burst  out  laughing  at  it,  and  it  really  seemed  to 
look  reproachfully  at  me — and  for  a  moment  I  felt  sorry 
at  being  so  rude.  I  could  have  lain  there  all  day,  so  deli- 
cious was  the  silence  save  for  these  natural  sounds — and 
all  these  dear  little  birds  and  insects.  What  surprised 
me  so  much  about  the  flowers  was  not  only  their  immense 
quantity,  but  also  their  astounding  variety.  At  last  I 
had  to  leave,  as  it  is  not  safe  to  lie  long  on  the  Campagna 
if  one  is  tired  or  hungry.  So  I  strolled  along  through 
the  deep  grasses  and  over  slope  after  slope  till  at  last 


88  WILLIAM    SHARP 

I  saw  the  clump  of  stone  pines  which  were  my  landmark, 
and  then  I  soon  joined  the  road.  ..." 

Siena,  30th  April,  1883. 

"  You  will  see  by  the  above  address  that  I  have  arrived 
in  this  beautiful  old  city. 

I  left  Rome  and  arrived  in  Perugia  on  Thursday  last 
— spending  the  rest  of  the  day  in  wandering  about  the 
latter,  and  watching  the  sunset  over  the  far-stretching 
Umbrian  country.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  some  nice 
people  at  the  Hotel,  and  we  agreed  to  share  a  carriage 
for  a  day — so  early  on  Friday  morning  we  started  in  a 
carriage  and  pair  for  Assisi.  About  3  miles  from  Peru- 
gia we  came  to  the  Etruscan  tombs,  which  we  spent  a 
considerable  time  in  exploring:  I  was  much  struck  with 
the  symbolism  and  beauty  of  the  ornamental  portions. 
Death  evidently  to  the  ancient  Etrurians  being  but  a 
departure  elsewhere.  The  comparative  joyousness  (ex- 
ultation, as  in  the  symbol  of  the  rising  sun  over  the  chief 
entrance)  of  the  Etruscans  contrasts  greatly  with  the 
joylessness  of  the  Christians,  who  have  done  their  best 
to  make  death  repellant  in  its  features  and  horrible  in 
its  significance,  its  possibilities. 

Only  a  Renaissance  of  belief  in  the  Beautiful  being 
the  only  sure  guide  can  save  modern  nations  from  further 
spiritual  degradation — and  not  till  the  gloomy  precepts 
of  Christianity  yield  to  something  more  akin  to  the  Greek 
sense  of  beauty  will  life  appear  to  the  majority  lovely 
and  wonderful,  alike  in  the  present  and  in  the  future. 

After  leaving  the  Tombs  of  the  Volumnii  we  drove 
along  through  a  most  interesting  country,  beautiful  every- 
where owing  to  Spring's  feet  having  passed  thereover, 
till  we  came  to  the  Church  of  Sta.  Maria  degli  Angeli — 
on  the  plain  just  below  Assisi.  We  went  over  this,  and 
then  drove  up  the  winding  road  to  the  gray  old  town 
itself,  visiting,  before  ascending  to  the  ruined  citadel  at 
the  top  of  the  hill,  the  Chiesa  di  Santa  Chiara.  Lying 
on  the  grass  on  the  very  summit  of  the  hill,  we  had  lunch, 
and  then  lay  looking  at  the  scenery  all  round  us,  north. 


FIRST   VISIT    TO    ITALY  89 

south,  east,  and  west.  Barren  and  desolate  and  colour- 
less, with  neither  shade  of  tree  nor  coolness  of  water, 
these  dreary  Assisi  hills  have  nothing  of  the  grandeur 
and  beauty  of  the  barrenness  and  desolation  of  the  north 
— they  are  simply  hideous  to  the  eye,  inexpressibly 
dreary,  dead,  and  accursed.  I  shall  never  now  hear 
Assisi  mentioned  without  a  shudder,  for  picturesque  as 
the  old  town  is,  beautiful  as  are  the  Monastery,  the  Upper 
Church,  the  paintings  and  the  frescoes — they  are  over- 
weighted in  my  memory  with  the  hideousness  of  the  im- 
mediate hill-surroundings.  It  made  me  feel  almost  sick 
and  ill,  looking  from  the  ruined  citadel  out  upon  these 
stony,  dreary,  lifeless,  hopeless  hills — and  I  had  again 
and  again  to  find  relief  in  the  beauty  of  more  immediate 
surroundings — the  long  grasses  waving  in  the  buttresses 
of  the  citadel,  the  beautiful  yellow  (absolutely  stainless  in 
colour)  wallflowers  sprouting  from  every  chink  and 
cranny,  and  the  green  and  gray  lizards  darting  every- 
where and  shining  in  the  sunlight.  Here  at  least  was  life, 
not  death:  and  to  me  human  death  is  less  painful  than 
that  of  nature,  for  in  the  former  I  see  but  change,  but  in 
the  latter — annihilation.  These  poor  mountains! — once, 
long  ago,  bright  and  joyous  with  colour  and  sound  and 
winds  and  waters  and  birds — and  now  without  a  tree  to 
give  shadow  where  grass  will  never  again  grow,  save 
here  and  there  a  stunted  and  withered  olive,  like  some 
plague-stricken  wretch  still  lingering  amongst  the  de- 
cayed desolation  of  his  birthplace — without  the  music 
and  light  of  running  water,  save,  perhaps  twice  amidst 
their  parched  and  serried  flanks  a  crawling,  muddy,  hide- 
ous liquid;  and  without  sound,  save  the  blast  of  the 
winter-wind  and  the  rattle  of  dislodged  stones. 

Yet  the  day  was  perfect — one  of  those  flawless  days 
combining  the  laughter  of  Spring  and  the  breath  of  ar- 
dent Summer:  but  perhaps  this  very  perfection  accen- 
tuates the  desert  wretchedness  behind  the  old  town  of 
St.  Francis.  Yet  the  veiy  day  before  I  went  I  was  told 
that  the  view  from  the  citadel  was  lovely  (and  this  not 
with  reference  to  the  Umbrian  prospect  in  front  of  Assisi, 


90  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

which  is  fine  though  to  my  mind  it  has  been  enormously 
exaggerated) — lovely!  As  well  might  a  person  ask  me 
to  look  at  the  divine  beauty  of  the  Belvedere  Apollo, 
and  then  say  to  me  that  lovely  also  was  yon  maimed  and 
hideous  beggar,  stricken  with  the  foulness  of  leprosy. 

The  hills  about  Assisi  beautiful!  Oh  Pan,  Pan,  in- 
deed your  music  passed  long,  long  ago  out  of  men's  hear- 
ing. ..." 

Floeence,  7th  May. 

"  On  either  Wednesday  or  Thursday  last  we  started 
early  for  Monte  Oliveto,  and  after  a  long  and  interest- 
ing drive  we  came  to  a  rugged  and  wild  countryj  and 
at  last,  by  the  side  of  a  deep  gorge  to  the  famous  Con- 
vent itself.  The  scenery  all  round  made  a  great  impres- 
sion on  me — it  was  as  wild,  almost  as  desolate  as  the 
hills  behind  Assisi — but  there  was  nothing  repellant,  i.  e., 
stagnant,  about  it.  While  we  were  having  something 
to  eat  outside  the  convent  (a  huge  building)  the  abbe 
came  out  and  received  us  most  kindly,  and  brought  us 
further  refreshment  in  the  way  of  hard  bread  and  wine 
and  cheese — their  mode  of  life  being  too  simple  to  have 
anything  else  to  offer. 

Owing  to  the  great  heat  and  perhaps  over-exposure 
while  toiling  up  some  of  the  barren  scorched  roads,  where 
they  became  too  hilly  or  rough  for  the  horses — I  had 
succumbed  to  an  agonising  nervous  headache,  and  could 
do  nothing  for  a  while  but  crouch  in  a  comer  of  the  wall 
in  the  shade  and  keep  wet  handkerchiefs  constantly  over 
my  forehead  and  head.  In  the  meantime  the  others  had 
gone  inside,  and  as  Mrs.  S.  had  told  the  abbe  I  was 
suffering  from  a  bad  headache  he  came  out  to  see  me 
and  at  once  said  I  had  had  a  slight  touch  of  the  sun — a 
frequent  thing  in  these  scorched  and  barren  solitudes. 
He  took  me  into  a  private  room  and  made  me  lie  down 
on  a  bed — and  in  a  short  time  brought  me  two  cups  of 
strong  black  coffee,  with  probably  something  in  it — for 
in  less  than  twenty  minutes  I  could  bear  the  light  in  my 
eyes  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  I  had  only  an  ordinary 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  91 

headache.  He  was  exceedingly  kind  altogether,  and  I 
shall  never  think  of  Monte  Oliveto  without  calling  to 
remembrance  the  Abbe  Cesareo  di  Negro.  I  then  spent 
about  three  hours  over  the  famous  35  noble  frescoes  by 
Sodoma  and  Signorelli,  illustrating  the  life  of  Saint  Ben- 
edict, the  founder  of  the  convent.  They  are  exceedingly 
beautiful — and  one  can  learn  more  from  this  consecutive 
series  than  can  well  be  imagined.  While  taking  my  notes 
and  wondering  how  I  was  to  find  time  (without  staying 
for  a  couple  of  days  or  so)  to  take  down  all  particulars — 
I  saw  the  abbe  crossing  the  cloisters  in  my  direction, 
and  when  he  joined  me  he  said,  "  la  Signora  "  had  told 
him  I  was  a  poet  and  writer,  and  that  I  thought  more 
of  Sodoma  than  any  of  his  contemporaries,  and  so  he 
begged  me  to  accept  from  him  a  small  work  in  French 
on  the  history  of  the  convent  including  a  fairly  complete 
account  of  each  fresco.  A  glance  at  this  showed  that 
it  would  be  of  great  service  to  me,  and  save  much  in 
the  way  of  note-taking — and  I  was  moreover  glad  of  this 
memento;  he  inscribed  his  name  in  it.  .  .  . 

The  more  I  see  of  Sodoma's  work  the  more  I  see 
what  a  great  artist  he  was — and  how  enormously  under- 
rated he  is  in  comparison  with  many  others  better  known 
or  more  talked  about.  After  having  done  as  much  as  I 
could  take  in,  I  went  with  the  abbe  over  other  interesting 
parts  and  saw  some  paintings  of  great  repute,  but  to  me 
unutterably  wearisome  and  empty — and  then  to  the  libra- 
ry— and  finally  through  the  wood  to  a  little  chapel  with 
some  interesting  frescoes.  I  felt  quite  sorry  to  leave  the 
good  abbe.  I  promised  to  send  him  a  copy  of  whatever 
I  wrote  about  the  Sodomas — and  he  said  that  whenever 
I  came  to  Italy  again  I  was  to  come  and  stay  there  for 
a  few  days,  or  longer  if  I  liked — and  he  hoped  I  would 
not  forget  but  take  him  at  his  word.  Thinking  of  you, 
I  said  I  supposed  ladies  could  not  stay  at  the  Convent — 
but  he  said  they  were  not  so  rigorous  now,  and  he  would 
be  glad  to  see  the  wife  of  the  young  English  poet  with 
him,  if  she  could  put  up  with  plain  fare  and  simple 
lodging.    Altogether,  Monte  Oliveto  made  such  an  im- 


92  WILLIAM    SHARP 

pression  on  me  that  I  won't  be  content  till  I  take  you 
there  for  a  visit  of  a  few  days.  .  .  ." 

Venezia,  10th  May. 

"...  I  came  here  one  day  earlier  than  I  anticipated. 
What  can  I  say?  I  have  no  words  to  express  my  de- 
light as  to  Venice  and  its  surroundings — it  makes  up  an 
hundredfold  for  my  deep  disappointment  as  to  Rome.  I 
am  in  sympathy  with  everything  here — the  art,  the  ar- 
chitecture, the  beauty  of  the  city,  everything  connected 
with  it,  the  climate,  the  brightness  and  joyousness,  and 
most  of  all  perhaps  the  glorious  presence  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 
From  the  first  moment,  I  fell  passionately  and  irretriev- 
ably in  love  with  Venice :  I  should  rather  be  a  week  here 
than  a  month  in  Rome  or  even  Florence:  the  noble  city 
is  the  crown  of  Italy,  and  fit  to  be  empress  of  all  cities. 

All  yesterday  afternoon  and  evening  (save  an  hour 
on  the  Piazza  and  neighbourhood)  I  spent  in  a  gondola 
— enjoying  it  immensely:  and  after  dinner  I  went  out 
till  late  at  night,  listening  to  the  music  on  the  canals. 
Curiously,  after  the  canals  were  almost  deserted — and  I 
was  drifting  slowly  in  a  broad  stream  of  moonlight — a 
casement  opened  and  a  woman  sang  with  as  divine  a 
voice  as  in  my  poem  of  The  Tides  of  Venice :  she  was  also 
such  a  woman  as  there  imagined — and  I  felt  that  the 
poem  was  a  true  forecast.  Early  this  morning  I  went 
to  the  magnificent  St.  Mark's  (not  only  infinitely  nobler 
than  St.  Peter's,  but  to  me  more  impressive  than  all  the 
Churches  in  Rome  taken  together).  I  then  went  to  the 
Lido,  and  had  a  glorious  swim  in  the  heavy  sea  that  was 
rolling  in.  On  my  return  I  found  that  Addington  Sym- 
onds  had  called  on  me — and  I  am  expecting  W.  D.  How- 
ells.    I  had  also  a  kind  note  from  Ouida. 

Life,  joyousness,  brightness  everywhere — oh,  I  am 
so  happy!  I  wish  I  were  a  bird,  so  that  I  could  sing 
out  the  joy  and  delight  in  my  heart.  After  the  oppression 
of  Rome,  the  ghastliness  of  Assisi,  the  heat  and  dust 
of  Florence — Venice  is  like  Paradise.  Summer  is  every- 
where here — on  the  Lido  there  were  hundreds  of  butter- 


FIRST   VISIT    TO    ITALY  93 

flies,  lizards,  bees,  birds,  and  some  heavenly  larks — a 
perfect  glow  and  tumult  of  life — and  I  shivered  with 
happiness.  The  cool  fresh  joyous  wind  blew  across  the 
waves  white  with  foam  and  gay  with  the  bronze-sailed 
fisher-boats — the  long  wavy  grass  was  sweet-scented  and 
delicious — the  acacias  were  in  blossom  of  white — life — 
dear,  wonderful,  changeful,  passionate,  joyous  life  every- 
where! I  shall  never  forget  this  day — never,  never. 
Don't  despise  me  when  I  tell  you  that  once  it  overcame 
me,  quite ;  but  the  tears  were  only  from  excess  of  happi- 
ness, from  the  passionate  delight  of  getting  back  again 
to  the  Mother  whom  I  love  in  Nature,  with  her  wind- 
caresses  and  her  magic  breath." 

The  weeks  in  Venice  gave  my  correspondent  the  crown- 
ing pleasure  of  his  Italian  sojourn;  Venetian  art  ap- 
pealed to  him  beyond  that  of  any  other  school.  The 
frequent  companionship  of  John  Addington  SjTuonds, 
the  long  hours  in  the  gondola,  in  the  near  and  distant 
lagoons  were  a  perpetual  joy  to  him.  June  he  spent  in 
the  Ardennes  with  my  mother  and  me — at  Dinant,  at 
Anseremme  and  at  La  Roche.  They  were  happy  days 
which  we  spent  chiefly  in  a  little  boat  sailing  up  the 
Lesse,  dragging  it  over  the  shallows,  or  resting  in  the 
green  shade  of  oak  and  beech  trees. 

In  July  he  was  once  more  in  London  and  hard  at  work. 
Among  other  things  he  had  contributed  a  series  of  arti- 
cles on  the  Etrurian  Cities  to  the  Glasgoiv  Herald,  and 
followed  them  with  letters  descriptive  of  the  Ardennes, 
then  relatively  little  known.  In  August  he  packed  all 
his  Italian  notes,  and  joined  his  mother  and  sisters  at 
Innellan  on  the  Clyde,  and  later  he  visited  Sir  Noel  Paton 
in  Arran,  whence  he  wandered  over  many  of  his  old  loved 
haunts  in  Loch  Fyne,  in  Mull  and  in  lona. 

On  his  way  back  to  London — where  he  was  to  take  up 
his  work  as  Art  Critic  to  the  Glasgow  Herald — a  serious 
misadventure  befell  him.  His  portmanteau  with  all  his 
precious  Italian  photographs,  notes  and  other  MSS.  was 
lost.     Nowhere  could  he  trace  it,  and  he  had  to  return 


94  WILLIAM    SHARP 

without  it.  He  was  in  despair;  for  it  meant  not  only  the 
loss  of  material  for  future  commissions,  but  the  loss  of 
work  already  finished,  and  in  process. 

It  was  a  wet  August ;  and  his  search  through  the  vari- 
ous places  he  had  passed  on  the  Clyde  was  made  in 
pouring  rain.  Again  and  again  on  the  steamers  and  on 
the  piers  he  was  soaked  during  those  miserable  days. 
He  settled  in  London  at  13  Thorngate  Road,  Suther- 
land Gardens,  in  deep  depression;  his  persistent  appeals 
to  the  Railway  Company  were  unavailing.  As  the  au- 
tumn advanced  his  old  enemy  rheumatism  took  hold  of 
him,  and  he  was  laid  low  again  with  rheumatic  fever, 
which  this  time  attacked  his  heart  mainly.  His  sister 
Mary  came  up  to  town  and  she  and  I  nursed  him.  The 
best  tonic  however  toward  recovery  was  the  reappear- 
ance of  the  lost  portmanteau  with  its  much  mourned 
over  contents  in  a  soaked  and  sodden  condition,  but  still 
legible  and  serviceable. 

In  the  Introduction  to  a  selection  of  Philip  Marston's 
Poems  my  husband  relates  that : 

"  During  the  spring  months  of  1884  I  was  residing  at 
Dover,  and  in  April  Marston  came  down  from  London 
to  spend  a  week  or  so  with  me.  The  weather  was  per- 
fect, and  our  walks  by  shore  and  cliff  were  full  of  de- 
light to  us  both.  Once  or  twice  we  crossed  to  Calais  for 
the  sake  of  the  sail,  and  spent  a  few  hours  in  the  old 
French  port,  and  returned  by  the  afternoon  boat.  In 
the  evenings,  after  dinner,  we  invariably  adjourned  to 
the  beach,  either  under  the  eastern  bluffs,  or  along  the 
base  of  Shakespeare's  Cliff,  for  the  music  of  the  sea,  in 
calm  or  tidal  turbulence  or  tempest,  had  an  unfailing 
fascination  for  him. 

"  He  took  keen  pleasure  in  learning  how  to  distinguish 
the  songs  of  the  different  birds,  and  all  spring's  sounds 
and  scents  were  sources  of  exquisite  pleasure.  How  well 
I  remember  the  rapt  expression  of  puzzled  delight  which 
animated  his  face,  as  one  day  we  crossed  some  downs 
to  the  westward  of  Folkestone.  '  Oh,  what  is  that? '  he 
cried  eagerly ;  and  to  my  surprise  I  found  that  what  had 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  95 

so  excited  him  was  the  crying  of  the  young  lambs  as  they 
stumbled  or  frisked  about  their  mothers.  He  had  so 
seldom  been  out  of  London  in  early  spring  that  so  com- 
mon an  incident  as  this  had  all  the  charm  of  newness  to 
him. 

"  A  frisky  youngster  was  eagerly  enticed  alongside, 
and  the  blind  poet's  almost  childlike  happiness  in  play- 
ing with  the  woolly  little  creature  was  something  delight- 
ful to  witness.  A  little  later  I  espied  one  which  had  only 
been  a  few  hours  in  the  world,  and  speedily  placed  it  in 
his  arms.  He  would  fain  have  carried  it  away  with  him : 
in  his  tender  solicitude  for  it  he  was  like  a  mother  over 
her  first-born. 

"  As  we  turned  to  walk  homeward  we  met  a  boy  hold- 
ing a  young  starling  in  his  hand.  Its  feeble  strident 
cries,  its  funny  little  beak  closing  upon  his  finger  under 
the  impression  it  was  a  gigantic  worm,  delighted  him 
almost  as  much  as  the  lambkin.  '  A  day  of  days ! '  was 
his  expressive  commentary,  as  tired  and  hungry  we 
reached  home  and  sat  down  to  dinner,  with  the  deep 
boom  of  the  sea  clearly  audible  through  the  open  win- 
dow." 

From  Dover  W.  S.  went  to  Paris  for  the  first  time  in 
his  capacity  as  Art  Critic,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  him- 
self as  this  letter  to  me  shows : 

Paris,  10th  April,  1884. 

What  remains  of  me  after  to-day's  heat  now  writes  to 
you.  This  morning  I  spent  half  an  hour  or  so  in  M. 
Bourget's  study — and  was  flattered  to  find  a  well-read 
copy  of  my  Rossetti  there.  He  had  a  delightful  library 
of  books,  and,  for  a  Frenchman,  quite  a  respectable  num- 
ber by  English  writers :  amongst  other  things,  I  was  most 
interested  in  seeing  a  shelf  of  about  30  volumes  with 
letters  or  inscriptions  inside  from  the  corresponding  con- 
temporary critics,  philosophists,  etc.  M.  Bourget  is  for- 
tunate in  his  friends. 

I  then  went  to  breakfast  with  him  at  a  famous  Cafe, 
frequented  chiefly  by  hommes  de  lettres.    At  our  table  we 


96  WILLIAM   SHARP 

were  soon  joined  by  Hennequin  and  two  others.  After 
breakfast  (a  most  serious  matter!)  I  adjourned  with 
Bourget  to  his  club,  La  Societe  Historique,  Cercle  St. 
Simon,  and  while  there  was  introduced  to  one  or  two 
people,  and  made  an  honorary  member  with  full  privi- 
leges. I  daresay  Bourget's  name  is  better  known  to  you 
as  a  poet,  but  generally  his  name  is  more  familiar  as  the 
author  of  "  Essais  de  Psychologic  Contemporaine  " — an 
admirable  series  of  studies  on  the  works  and  genius  of 
Baudelaire,  Renan,  Gustave  Flaubert,  Taine,  and  Sten- 
dhal. He  very  kindly  gave  me  a  copy  (which  I  am  glad  to 
have  from  him,  though  I  knew  the  book  already)  and 
in  it  he  wrote 

A  William  Sharp 
de  son  confrere 
Paul  Bourget. 

After  leaving  him  I  recrossed  the  Champs  Elysees — 
perspired  so  freely  that  the  Seine  perceptibly  rose — sank 
exhausted  on  a  seat  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix — dwelt  in 
ecstasy  while  absorbing  a  glace  aux  pistaches — then  went 
back  to  the  Grand  Hotel — and  to  my  room,  where  after 
a  bit  I  set  to  and  finished  my  concluding  Grosvenor  Gal- 
lery Notice. 

On  Sunday,  if  I  can  manage  it,  I  will  go  to  Mdme.  Bla- 
vatsky. 

On  Monday  Bourget  comes  here  for  me  at  twelve,  and 
we  breakfast  together  (he  with  me  this  time) — and  I 
then  go  to  M.  Lucien  Mariex,  who  is  to  take  and  introduce 
me  to  M.  Muntz,  the  writer  of  the  best  of  the  many  books 
on  Raphael  and  an  influential  person  in  the  Bibliotheque 
Nationale.  Somebody  else  is  to  take  me  to  look  at  some 
of  the  private  treasures  in  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts.  In 
the  course  of  the  week  I  am  to  see  Alphonse  Daudet,  and 
Bourget  is  going  to  introduce  me  to  Emile  Zola.  As 
early  as  practicable  I  hope  to  get  to  Neuilly  to  see  M. 
Milsand,  but  don't  know  when.  If  practicable  I  am  also 
to  meet  Frangois  Coppee  (the  chief  living  French  poet 
after  Victor  Hugo) — also  M.  M.  Richepin,  F.  Mistral 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  97 

(author  of  Mireio),  and  one  or  two  others.  Amongst 
artists  I  am  looking  forward  to  meeting  Bouguereau, 
Cormin,  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  and  Jules  Breton.  As 
much  as  any  one  else,  I  look  forward  to  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Guizot  to  whose  house  I  am  going  shortly 
with  M.  Bourget.  There  is  really  a  delightful  fraternity 
here  amongst  the  literary  and  artistic  world.  And  every 
one  seems  to  want  to  do  something  for  me,  and  I  feel  as 
much  flattered  as  I  am  pleased.  Of  course  my  introduc- 
tions have  paved  the  way,  and,  besides,  Bourget  has 
said  a  great  deal  about  me  as  a  writer — too  much,  I 
know." 

The  two  important  events  of  1884  were  the  publication 
of  a  second  volume  of  Poems,  and  our  marriage. 

In  June  Earth's  Voices  (Elliot  Stock)  was  issued  and 
was  well  received  at  home  and  in  America.  In  an  ar- 
ticle on  William  Sharp  and  Fiona  Macleod  written  for 
The  Century  in  1906  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys  wrote  of  this 
volume : 

"  There  was  an  impassioned  delight  in  nature — in  na- 
ture at  large,  that  is — in  her  seas  and  skies,  or  in  her 
scenery  subjectively  coloured  by  lyric  emotion  to  be 
found  in  these  early  books. 

"  Perhaps  one  of  his  Northern  poems  may  best  serve  to 
illustrate  his  faculty;  and  there  is  one  that  is  particu- 
larly to  the  purpose,  since  it  sketches  *  Moonrise '  from 
the  very  spot — lona — with  which  so  many  of  the  '  Fiona ' 
tales  and  fantasies  were  to  be  connected  afterward. 

Here  where  in  dim  forgotten  days, 
A   savage   people   chanted   lays 
To  long  since  perished  gods,  I   stand: 
The  sea  breaks  in,  runs  up  the  sand, 
Retreats  as  with  a  long-drawn  sigh. 
Sweeps  in  again,  again  leaves  dry 
The  ancient  beach,  so  old  and  yet 
So  new  that  as  the  strong  tides  fret 
The  island  barriers  in  their  flow 
The  ebb  hours  of  each  day  can  know 
A  surface  change.     The  day  is  dead, 
The  Sun  is  set,  and  overhead 


98  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

The  white  north  stars  set  keen  and  bright; 

The  wind  upon  the  sea  is  light 

And  just  enough  to  stir  the  deep 

With   phosphorescent   gleams    and   sweep 

The  spray  from  salt  waves  as  they  rise. 


"  Sharp's  early  work  is  more  like  that  of  a  lyric  im- 
provisator than  of  a  critical  modem  poet.  At  this  period 
he  cared  more  for  the  free  colours  of  verse  than  for  exact 
felicity  of  phrase.  His  writings  betrayed  a  constant 
quest  after  those  hardly  realisable  regions  of  thought, 
and  those  keener  lyric  emotions,  which,  since  Shelley 
wrote  and  Kossetti  wrote  and  painted,  have  so  often  occu- 
pied the  interpreters  of  the  vision  and  spectacle  of  na- 
ture. 

"  One  may  find  this  variously  attempted  or  half  ex- 
pressed in  several  of  the  poems  of  his  second  book.  In 
one  called  'A  Eecord'  (to  which  a  special  inscription 
drew  attention  in  the  copy  he  sent  me),  he  treats  very 
fancifully  the  mystery  of  transmigration.  He  pictures 
himself  sitting  in  his  room,  and  there  he  resumes  the 
lives,  and  states  of  being,  of  many  savage  types  of  man 
and  beast  viewed  in  passion  and  action — the  tiger,  the 
eagle,  and  the  primitive  man  who  lighted  the  fire  that 
consumed  the  dry  scrub  and  his  fellow-tribesmen: 

He  looks  around  to  see  some  god, 
And  far  upon  the  fire-scorched  sod 
He  sees  his  brown-burnt  tribesmen  lie, 
And  thinks  their  voices  fill  the  sky. 
And  dreads  some  unseen  sudden  blow — 
And  even  as  I  watch  him,  lo. 
My  savage-self  I  seem  to  know. 


"  Or  again  he  reincarnates  the  Druid : 

And  dreaming  so  I  dream  my  dream: 
I   see  a  flood  of  moonlight  gleam 
Between  vast  ancient  oaks,  and  round 
A   rough-hewn   altar   on   the   ground 
Weird  Druid  priests  are  gathered 
While  through  their  midst  a  man  is  led 
With  face  that  seems  already  dead. 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  99 

"  And  again  the  type  is  changed  into  a  Shelleyan  re- 
cluse, a  hermit  who  had  had  retreated  to  his  cave,  and 
that  hermit 

Was  even  that  soul  mine  eyes  have  traced 
Through   brute   and   savage   steadily. 
That  he  even  now  is  part  of  me 
Just  as  a  wave  is  of  the  sea. 

"  If  there  are  traces  of  Shelley  in  this  poem,  Rossetti 
and  Swinburne  have  also  their  echo  in  some  of  its  rhap- 
sodic, highly  figurative  stanzas.  There  are  unmistakable 
germs  in  it,  too,  of  some  of  the  supernatural  ideas  that 
afterward  received  a  much  more  vital  expression  in 
'  Fiona  Macleod's  '  work." 

The  volume  was  dedicated  to  his  friend  "Walter  Pater 
and  from  him  and  other  writers  and  friends  he  received 
many  interesting  letters,  and  from  them  I  select  the  fol- 
lowing : 

2  Bbadmoee  Road,  May  28th. 

My  dear  Shaep, 

I  was  just  thinking  of  sending  off  my  long-delayed 
acknowledgment  of  your  charming  volume,  with  its 
friendly  dedication  (which  I  take  as  a  great  compliment, 
and  sincerely  thank  you  for)  when  your  post  card  ar- 
rived. These  new  poems  must,  I  feel  sure,  add  much 
to  your  poetic  reputation.  I  have  just  finished  my  first 
reading  of  them;  but  feel  that  I  shall  have  to  go  back 
many  times  to  appreciate  all  their  complex  harmonies 
of  sense  and  rhythm.  On  a  first  superficial  reading,  I 
incline  to  think  that  the  marks  of  power  cluster  most 
about  the  poem  of  Sospitra.  Also,  I  prefer  the  Tran- 
scripts from  Nature,  to  the  various  poems  included  in 
Earth^s  Voices,  admirable  as  I  think  many  of  the  latter 
to  be,  e.  g.,  The  Song  of  the  Flowers,  The  Field  Mouse, 
The  Song  of  the  Thrush,  The  Cry  of  the  Tiger,  The  Chant 
of  the  Lion,  The  Hymn  of  the  Autumn.  This  looks 
shamefully  matter-of-fact.  But  then,  you  asked  me  to 
tell  you  precisely  which  I  preferred.  The  Shadowed 
Souls,  among  the  short  pieces,  I  find  very  beautiful.    The 


100  WILLIAM    SHARP 

whole  volume  seems  to  me  distinguishable  among  latter- 
day  poetry  for  its  cheerfulness  and  animation,  and  of 
course  the  Australian  pieces  are  delightfully  novel  and 
fresh.    Many  thanks,  again,  from 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

Walter  H.  Pater. 


In  an  article  on  Christina  Rossetti,  William  Sharp  re- 
lates : 

"  In  the  beginning  of  May,  1884,  I  called  to  see  Miss 
Rossetti  and  to  leave  with  her  a  copy  of  a  just-published 
volume  of  verse,  but  failed  to  find  her  at  home.  The 
poem  I  cared  most  for  was  the  epilogue.  Madonna  Na- 
tura,  but  instinct  told  me  Miss  Rossetti  would  neither 
like  nor  approve  so  jDagan  an  utterance,  and  the  surmise 
was  correct: 

30  TORBINGTON  SQUARE,  W.  C, 

May  3,  1884. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

I  might  say  "  Why  do  you  call  just  when  we  are  out?  " 
only  that  you  might  retort  "  Why  are  you  out  just  when 
I  call!" 

Thank  you  very  much  for  your  new  volume  and  yet 
more  for  the  kindness  which  enriches  the  gift.  Be  sure 
my  Mother  and  I  retain  you  in  friendly  remembrance. 

An  imperfect  acquaintance  with  your  text  inclines  me 
for  the  present  to  prefer  "  the  Thames  "  amongst  rivers, 
and  the  "  West "  among  winds,  and  the  "  Thrush  "  among 
song-birds.    So  also  "  Deserts  "  to  "  Cornfields." 

Of  course  all  the  pieces  which  memorialise  our  dear 
Gabriel  interest  us. 

And  "  Ah  Sin  "  I  like  and  sympathise  with :  and  I  fear 
it  is  only  too  lifelike.  Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  say  anything 
about  "  Madre  Natura  "I  I  dare  say  without  my  taking 
the  liberty  of  expressing  myself  you  can  (if  you  think  it 
worth  while)  put  my  regret  into  words. 

Very  truly  yours, 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


FIRST   VISIT    TO    ITALY  101 

"  Though  I  cannot  recall  what  I  wrote,  write  I  did  evi- 
dently, and  obviously  also  with  eagerness  to  prove  that, 
while  I  accepted  her  gentle  reproof  in  the  spirit  in  which 
she  offered  it,  I  held  the  point  of  view  immaterial ;  and  no 
doubt  a  very  crude  epistle  it  was  in  thought  and  dic- 
tion. .  .  ." 

That  summer  my  Poet  and  I  were  very  happy  receiv- 
ing the  congratulations  from  our  friends  on  the  approach- 
ing termination  of  our  nine  years  of  waiting.  We  were 
married  on  a  Friday  the  31st  October  1884  at  Christ 
Church,  Lancaster  Gate,  and  his  friend  Eric  S.  Robertson 
— Editor  of  The  Great  Writer  Series,  and  afterward  Pro- 
fessor of  Literature  and  Logic  at  Lahore  Government 
College — acted  as  best  man.  Mrs.  Craik  lent  us  her 
house  at  Dover  for  our  honeymoon,  and  we  also  made  a 
flying  visit  to  Paris. 

The  end  of  November  found  us  settled  in  a  little  house 
in  Talgarth  Road,  West  Kensington  (No.  46) :  our  rela- 
tives furnished  the  house  for  us  and  we  began  our  new 
life  with  high  hopes  and  a  slender  purse.  My  hus- 
band had  £30  in  his  pocket,  and  I  had  an  income  of  £35 
a  year. 

Among  the  many  kindly  letters  of  congratulations  came 
one  from  Mr.  Addington  Symonds. 

Davos  Platz,  Dec.  22,  1884. 

My  dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

Allow  me  first  to  congratulate  you  on  your  marriage, 
and  settlement  in  London.  You  will  remember  that  I  was 
privileged  at  Venice  to  see  a  volume  of  your  "  Tran- 
scripts from  Nature,"  in  relation  to  which  you  told  me 
of  your  engagement.  I  am  therefore  interested  to  hear 
of  the  happy  event,  and  wish  both  you  and  Mrs.  Sharp 
all  the  prosperity,  which  it  is  possible  for  mortals  to 
enjoy!  When  I  come  to  London  (which  I  hope  to  do 
next  year)  I  shall  not  forget  your  kind  invitation. 

I  must  give  you  most  hearty  thanks  for  the  enjoyment 
of  a  rare  delight  in  your  post-card  and  letter  about  my 
Sonnets.    I  have  so  high  an  esteem  of  your  own  original 


102  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

work  in  poetry  that  to  be  appreciated  by  you  is  no  com- 
mon pleasure.  Such  words  as  yours  are  more  than  many 
of  the  ordinary  reviews,  even  if  kindly;  and  they  take 
the  annoyance  away,  which  some  unjust  and  ignorant 
critiques  leave  upon  a  sensitive  mind. 

If  it  were  not  that  men  like  yourself,  who  have  the 
right  and  power  to  judge,  speak  thus  from  time  to  time, 
I  do  not  think  I  should  care  to  go  on  publishing  what  I 
take  pleasure  in  producing,  but  what  has  hitherto  brought 
me  no  gains  and  caused  me  to  receive  some  kicks.  It  is 
indeed  very  good  of  you  amid  your  pressing  literary 
occupations  and  the  more  delightful  interests  of  your 
life  at  present,  to  find  time  to  tell  me  what  you  really 
value  in  my  work.  Thank  you  for  noticing  the  omis- 
sion of  the  comma  after  islands  in  Sonnet  on  p.  38  of 
Vag :  Lit : 

It  has  fallen  out  accidentally ;  and  if  such  a  remarkable 
event  as  a  2nd.  edn.  occurs,  it  shall  be  replaced.  So  also 
will  I  alter  what  you  rightly  point  out  as  a  blemish  in 
the  Sonnet  on  p.  200 — the  repetition  of  deep  deep  and 
sleep  in  the  same  line.  That  was  questioned  by  my  own 
ear.  I  left  it  thus  because  I  thought  it  added  a  sort  of 
oppressive  dreaminess  to  the  opening  of  the  Sonnet,  strik- 
ing a  keynote.  But  if  it  has  struck  you  as  wrong,  I  doubt 
not  that  it  should  be  altered;  since  it  will  not  have 
achieved  the  purposed  effect.  And  those  effects  are  after 
all  tricks. 

I  shall  also  attend  to  your  suggestions  about  future 
work.  I  have  had  it  in  my  mind  to  continue  the  theme  of 
"  Animi  Figura,"  and  to  attempt  to  show  how  a  character 
which  has  reached  apparent  failure  in  moral  and  spiritual 
matters  may  reconstruct  a  life's  philosophy  and  find  suf- 
ficient sources  of  energy  and  health.  There  is  no  doubt 
great  difficulty  in  this  motif.  But  were  it  possible  to 
succeed  in  some  such  adumbration  of  what  the  Germans 
call  a  Versohnung,  then  the  purgation  of  the  passions  at 
which  a  work  of  art  should  aim  would  be  effected.  Be- 
lieve me,  with  renewed  thanks,  to  be  very  sincerely  yours, 

John  Addington  Symonds. 


FIRST   VISIT   TO   ITALY  103 

Many  were  the  pleasant  literary  households  that  gave 
a  welcome  to  us,  and  in  particular  those  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Craik,  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Robinson,  whose  beau- 
tiful daughters  Mary,  the  poetess,  and  Mabel,  the  nov- 
elist, I  already  knew ;  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Francillon,  of  Mrs. 
Augusta  Webster,  and  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Garnett.  In 
these  and  other  houses  we  met  many  common  friends  and 
interesting  people  of  note ;  most  frequently,  among  others, 
Mr.  Walter  Pater,  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  Dr.  Westland 
Marston,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ford  Madox  Brown,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  William  Rossetti,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Morris,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Holman  Hunt,  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  Mr.  Austin 
Dobson,  Mr.  Frederick  Shields,  Mr.  Theodore  Watts,  Sir 
Frederick  Leighton,  Miss  Mathilde  Blind,  Miss  Olive 
Schreiner,  Miss  Louise  Bevington,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Todhunter,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oscar  Wilde  and  Mrs.  Lynn 
Linton. 


CHAPTER   VI 

SONNETS   OF    THIS    CENTURY 

1885  was  a  year  of  hard  work.  It  was  our  desire  that 
such  work  should  be  done  that  should  eventually  make  it 
possible  for  my  husband  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to 
original  work — perhaps  in  a  year  or  two  at  most.  Mean- 
while the  outlook  was  satisfactory  and  encouraging.  He 
held  the  post  of  London  Art-Critic  to  the  Glasgow  Her- 
ald, was  on  the  staff  of  The  Academy  then  under  the 
Editorship  of  his  good  friend  Mr.  James  Cotton ;  and  he 
wrote  for  The  Examiner,  The  Athenaeum  and  other 
weeklies. 

On  the  appearance  in  The  Athenaeum  of  his  Review  on 
Marius  the  Epicurean  the  author  expressed  his  satisfac- 
tion in  a  letter : 

2  Bradmoee  Road, 

March  1,  1885. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  have  read  your  article  in  The  Athenaeum  with  very 
real  pleasure;  feeling  criticism,  at  once  so  independent 
and  so  sympathetic,  to  be  a  reward  for  all  the  long  labours 
the  book  has  cost  me.  You  seem  to  me  to  have  struck  a 
note  or  criticism  not  merely  pleasant  but  judicious;  and 
there  are  one  or  two  important  points — literary  ones-  -on 
which  you  have  said  precisely  what  I  should  have  wished, 
and  thought  it  important  for  me,  to  have  said.  Thank 
you  sincerely  for  your  friendly  work!  Also,  for  your 
letter,  and  promise  of  the  other  notices,  which  I  shall 
look  out  for,  and  greatly  value.  I  was  much  pleased 
also  that  Mrs.  Sharp  had  been  so  much  interested  in  my 
writing.  It  is  always  a  sign  to  me  that  I  have  to  some 
extent  succeeded  in  my  literary  aim  when  I  gain  the 
approval  of  accomplished  women. 

104 


V 


WALTER    PATER 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     105 

I  should  be  glad,  and  feel  it  a  great  compliment,  to  have 
Marius  translated  into  German,  on  whatever  terms  your 
friend  likes — provided  of  course  that  Macmillan  ap- 
proves. I  will  ask  him  his  views  on  this  point.  As  re- 
gards the  ethical  drift  of  Marius,  I  should  like  to  talk 
to  you,  if  you  were  here.  I  did  mean  it  to  be  more  anti- 
Epicurean  than  it  has  struck  you  as  being.  In  one  way 
however  I  am  glad  that  you  have  mistaken  me  a  little  on 
this  point,  as  I  had  some  fears  that  I  might  seem  to  l^e 
pleading  for  a  formal  thesis,  or  "  parti  pris."  Be  as- 
sured how  cheering  your  praise — praise  from  so  genuine 
and  accomplished  a  fellow- workman — has  been  to  me. 
Such  recognition  is  especially  a  help  to  one  whose  work 
is  so  exclusively  personal  and  solitary  as  the  kind  of  lit- 
erary work,  which  I  feel  I  can  do  best,  must  be.  I  fancied 
you  spoke  of  bringing  your  wife  to  Oxford  this  term; 
and  wish  we  had  a  room  to  offer  you.  But  I  think  you 
know  that  we  have  at  most  only  room  for  a  single  visitor. 
It  will  however  give  my  sisters  great  jDleasure  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Sharp.  Only  let  us  know  a 
week  or  so,  if  possible,  before  you  come  to  Oxford,  that 
we  may  see  as  much  of  you  as  possible:  and  with  our 
united  kind  regards,  believe  me,  my  dear  Sharp, 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Walter  Pater. 


I  hope  that  in  generosity  to  me  you  are  not  wasting 
too  much  of  the  time  that  belongs  to  your  own  original 
work.  I  have  told  Macmillan  to  send  you  a  properly 
bound  copy  of  Marius,  with  only  a  few  misprints." 

Mr.  Theodore  Watts  had  frequently  spoken  to  us  about 
a  romance  he  had  in  hand,  and  partly  in  print.  After 
much  persuasion  he  sent  several  chapters  of  Aylivin  to 
us  during  our  summer  holiday,  and  we  read  them  on  the 
shores  of  West  Loch  Tarbert  in  Argyll  with  keen  enjoy- 
ment. An  enthusiastic  letter  from  the  younger  author 
brought  this  reply : 


106  WILLIAM   SHAKP 

Seafobd,  Sept.  16,  1885. 

My  deak  Sharp, 

My  best  thanks  for  your  most  kind  and  suggestive  let- 
ter. I  am  much  gratified  to  know  that  in  you  and  Mrs. 
Sharp  I  have  true  sympathisers  in  a  story  which  although 
it  may  and  I  hope  will  be  generally  popular,  can  only 
deeply  appeal  to  the  heart  of  hearts  of  here  and  there  one 
of  the  true  romantic  temper.  Swinburne,  who  has  read 
it  all,  tells  me  that  the  interest  grows  sharply  and  steadily 
to  the  very  end  and  the  finest  volume  is  the  last. 

You  are  right  in  your  surmise  as  to  the  rapidity  in 
which  the  story  was  written  to  dictation.  Both  its  merits 
and  its  defects  you  will  find  to  arise  from  the  fact  that 
the  conception  came  to  me  as  one  whole  and  that  my 
eagerness  to  pour  it  out  while  the  imagination  was  at 
white  heat  conquered  everything.  I  doubt  if  it  ever  could 
have  been  written  save  to  dictation.  When  do  you  re- 
turn! 

Kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Sharp, 

Yours  affectly, 

Theo.  Watts. 

P.  S. — I  and  Swinburne  are  getting  some  delicious 
bathing. 

In  the  a:rticle  written  for  The  Century  Magazine,  1907, 
on  William  Sharp  and  Fiona  Macleod,  Mr.  Ernest  Ehys 
gives  a  reminiscent  description  of  the  young  author  and 
of  his  impressions  of  him,  on  their  first  acquaintance : 

"  One  summer  morning,  some  twenty  years  ago,  in 
Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea,  I  was  called  down  to  an  early 
visitor,  and  found  waiting  me  a  superb  young  man — a 
typical  Norseman,  as  I  should  have  thought  him — tall, 
yellow-haired,  blue-eyed.  His  cheeks  were  as  rosy  as  a 
young  girl's,  his  manners  as  frank  and  impulsive  as  a 
boy's.  He  had  come  with  an  introduction  from  a  com- 
mon friend  (Mrs.  William  Bell  Scott),  a  would-be  con- 
tributor to  a  new  periodical ;  but  he  soon  passed  from  the 
discussion  of  an  article  on  De  Quincey  to  an  account  of 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     107 

himself  that  was  joyously  and  consciously  exuberant. 
He  told  of  adventures  in  Australian  backwoods,  and  of 
intrigues  in  Italy  that  recalled  Cellini;  and  then  he 
turned,  with  the  same  rapid  flow  of  brief  staccato  sen- 
tences, to  speak  of  his  friend  Mr.  Swinburne's  new  vol- 
ume of  poems,  or  of  the  last  time  he  walked  along  Cheyne 
Walk  to  spend  an  evening  with  Rossetti.  He  appeared  to 
know  everybody,  to  have  been  everywhere.  Finally, 
though  he  had  apparently  been  sitting  up  all  the  night  be- 
fore to  write  an  epic  or  a  '  Quarterly '  article,  he  was 
quite  ready  to  start  the  same  evening  for  Paris,  not  only 
to  be  present  at  a  new  play  there,  but  in  order  to  be  able 
to  talk,  hours  on  end  in  the  dark,  about  the  '  Contes 
Extraordinaires '  of  M.  Ernest  Hello,  or  about  a  very 
different  and  still  more  wonderful  being,  then  little 
known  in  London,  called  Nietzsche. 

"It  is  not  easy  to  avoid  extravagance  in  speaking  of 
one  who  was  in  all  things  an  illusionist.  Sharp's  sensa- 
tions, doings,  artistic  ideas,  and  performances  were  not 
to  be  counted  by  rule  and  measure.  He  was  capable  of 
predicting  a  new  religion  as  he  paced  the  Thames  Em- 
bankment, or  of  devising  an  imaginary  new  theatre  for 
romantic  drama — whose  plays  were  yet  to  be  written  (by 
himself) — as  he  rode  home  from  the  Haymarket. 

"  Before  we  separated,  at  that  first  meeting,  he  had 
made  more  plans  for  events  and  new  great  works  than 
the  most  sanguine  of  imaginers  and  writers  could  hope 
to  effect  in  a  lifetime.  And,  alas !  for  his  control  of  cir- 
cumstance, within  a  fortnight  I  was  summoned  to  his 
sick-bed.  He  was  down  with  scarlet  fever,  and  it  fell  to 
me  to  write  from  his  notes,  or  otherwise  to  complete, 
more  than  one  essay  and  review  which  he  had  undertaken 
before  he  fell  ill.  .  .  . 

"  There  was  another  side  to  William  Sharp.  He  had 
a  spirit  of  fun,  boyish  mischief  even,  which  found  the 
slightest  reflection  in  his  work ;  for  his  writing  is  not  re- 
markable for  its  humour.  His  extravagance  of  energy, 
which  vehemently  sped  his  pen,  led  him,  in  the  course  of 
his  earlier  life,  into  a  hundred  wild  exploits.    To  him  a 


108  WILLIAM    SHARP 

piece  of  writing  was  an  adventure.  He  delighted  in  im- 
possible feats  of  composition,  such  as  trjdng  to  finish  a 
whole  romance  between  sunset  and  sunrise.  It  follows 
'  that,  with  all  this  huge  impetuosity,  he  was  a  poet  who 
was  rather  disinclined  by  temperament  for  the  *  poetic 
pains.'  What  he  wrote  in  haste  he  was  not  always  anx- 
ious to  correct  at  leisure ;  and  he  was  happy  about  what 
he  wrote — at  any  rate,  until  a  colder  mood  supervened  at 
some  later  stage  of  his  development. 

"  In  keeping  with  this  mental  restlessness,  Sharp  was 
an  insatiable  wanderer.  No  sooner  did  he  reach  London 
than  he  was  intriguing  to  be  off  again.  Some  of  his 
devices  in  order  to  get  work  done,  and  to  equip  these 
abrupt  expeditions,  were  as  absurd  as  anything  told  by 
Henri  Murger.  Thanks  to  his  large  and  imposing  pres- 
ence, his  sanguine  air,  his  rosy  faith  in  himself,  he  had  a 
way  of  overwhelming  editors  that  was  beyond  anything,  I 
believe,  ever  heard  of  in  London,  before  or  since.  On 
one  occasion  he  went  into  a  publisher's  office,  and  gave 
so  alluring  an  account  of  a  long-meditated  book  that  the 
publisher  gave  him  a  check  for  £100,  although  he  had 
not  written  a  word  of  it. 

"  These  things  illustrate  his  temperament.  He  was  a 
romanticist,  an  illusionist.  He  did  not  see  places  or  men 
and  women  as  they  were ;  he  did  not  care  to  see  them  so : 
but  he  had  quite  peculiar  powers  of  assimilating  to  him- 
self foreign  associations — the  ideas,  the  colours,  the  cur- 
rent allusions,  of  foreign  worlds.  In  Italy  he  became  an 
Italian  in  spirit ;  in  Algiers,  an  Arab.  On  his  first  visit  to 
Sicily  he  could  not  be  happy  because  of  the  sense  of 
bloodshed  and  warfare  associated  with  the  scenes  amid 
which  he  was  staying;  he  saw  bloodstains  on  the  earth, 
on  every  leaf  and  flower. 

"  The  same  susceptibility  marked  his  intercourse  with 
his  fellows.  Their  sensations  and  emotions,  their  whims, 
their  very  words,  were  apt  to  become  his,  and  to  be  repro- 
duced with  an  uncanny  reality  in  his  own  immediate  prac- 
tice. It  was  natural,  then,  that  he  should  be  doubly  sen- 
sitive to  feminine  intuitions ;  that  he  should  be  able,  even 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     109 

on  occasion,  thanks  to  an  extreme  concern  with  women's 
inevitable  burdens  and  sufferings,  to  translate,  as  men 
are  very  rarely  able  to  do,  their  intimate  dialect." 

The  description  given  by  Mr.  Rhys  of  William  Sharp's 
method  of  work  as  characterised  by  an  impetuosity 
which  made  him  "  disinclined  for  the  poetic  pains  "  be- 
longed to  one  phase  of  his  development.  During  the 
early  days  of  hard  work  for  the  bare  necessities  of  life,  he 
had  little  time  to  devote  to  the  writing  of  poetry  or  of 
purely  imaginative  work.  His  literary  efforts  were  di- 
rected toward  the  shaping  of  his  prose  critical  writings, 
toward  the  controlled  exercise  of  the  mental  faculties 
which  belonged  to  the  William  Sharp's  side  of  himself. 
From  time  to  time  the  emotional,  the  more  intimate  self 
would  sweep  aside  all  conscious  control ;  a  dream,  a  sud- 
den inner  vision,  an  idea  that  had  lain  dormant  in  what 
he  called  "  the  mind  behind  the  mind  "  would  suddenly 
visualise  itself  and  blot  out  everything  else  from  his  con- 
sciousness, and  under  such  impulse  he  would  write  at 
great  speed,  hardly  aware  of  what  or  how  he  wrote,  so 
absorbed  was  he  in  the  vision  with  which  for  the  moment 
he  was  identified.  In  those  days  he  was  unwilling  to  re- 
touch such  writing;  for  he  thought  that  revision  should 
be  made  only  under  a  similar  phase  of  emotion.  Conse- 
quently he  preferred  for  the  most  part  to  destroy  such 
efforts  if  the  result  seemed  quite  inadequate,  rather  than 
alter  them.  Later,  when  that  side  of  his  nature  found 
expression  in  the  Fiona  Macleod  writings — when  those 
impulses  became  more  frequent,  more  reliable,  more  co- 
herent— ^he  changed  his  attitude  toward  the  question  of 
revision,  and  desired  above  all  things  to  give  as  beautiful 
an  expression  as  lay  in  his  power  to  what  to  him  were 
dreams  of  beauty. 

For  his  critical  work,  however,  he  studied  and  pre- 
pared himself  deliberately.  He  believed  that  the  one 
method  of  attaining  to  a  balanced  estimate  of  our  litera- 
ture is  by  a  comparative  study  of  foreign  contemporary 
writing. 


no  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

"  The  more  interested  I  became  in  literature,"  he  on 
one  occasion  explained  to  an  interviewer,  "  the  more  con- 
vinced I  grew  of  the  narrowness  of  English  criticism  and 
of  the  importance  to  the  English  critic  of  getting  away 
from  the  insular  point  of  view.  So  I  decided  that  the 
surest  way  of  beginning  to  prepare  myself  for  the  work 
of  the  critic  would  be  to  make  a  study  of  three  or  four 
of  the  best  writers  among  the  older,  and  three  or  four 
among  the  younger  school  of  each  nation,  and  to  judge 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  nation.  For  example,  in 
studying  French  literature,  I  would  try  to  judge  from  the 
point  of  view  of  a  Frenchman.  AVhen  this  task  was  done 
I  tried  to  estimate  the  literature  under  consideration 
from  an  absolute  impersonal  and  impartial  point  of  view. 
Of  course,  this  study  took  a  long  time,  but  it  furnished 
me  material  that  has  been  invaluable  to  me  in  my  work 
ever  since." 

It  was  his  constant  endeavour  to  understand  the  un- 
derlying motive  in  any  phase  of  modem  literature;  and 
he  believed  that  "  what  is  new  in  literature  is  not  so 
likely  to  be  unfit  for  critics,  as  critics  are  likely  to  be  unfit 
for  what  is  new  in  literature."  Concerning  the  art  of 
Criticism  he  expressed  his  belief  in  an  unfinished  article: 
"  When  I  speak  of  Criticism  I  have  in  mind  not  merely 
the  more  or  less  deft  use  of  commentary  or  indication,  but 
one  of  the  several  ways  of  literature  and  in  itself  a  rare 
and  fine  art,  the  marriage  of  science  that  knows,  and  of 
spirit  that  discerns." 

"  The  basis  of  Criticism  is  imagination :  its  spiritual 
quality  is  sympathy:  its  intellectual  distinction  is  bal- 
ance." 

The  occasion  of  his  visit  to  Mr.  Ernest  Ehys  was  in 
connection  with  a  scheme  for  the  publication  of  two  series 
of  cheap  re-issues  of  fine  literature — a  comparatively  new 
venture  five-and-twenty  years  ago — to  be  published  by 
Messrs.  Walter  Scott:  The  Camelot  Classics  to  be  edited 
by  Ernest  Ehys  and  to  consist  of  selected  prose  writings, 
and  The  Canterbury  Poets  to  be  edited  by  William 
Sharp ; — Each  volume  to  be  prefaced  by  a  specially  writ- 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     111 

ten  introduction.  For  the  Prose  Series  "William  Sharp 
prepared  De  Quincey's  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater, 
and  Mrs.  Cunningham's  Great  English  Painters.  For  a 
third  series — Biographies  of  Great  Writers  edited  by 
Eric  S.  Eobertson  and  Frank  T.  Marzial,  he  wrote  his 
monographs  on  Shelley  in  1887,  on  Heine  in  1888  and  on 
Browning  in  1890. 

Meanwhile  he  contributed  a  volume  from  time  to  time 
to  The  Canterbury  Poets,  among  others:  Collections  of 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  Great  Odes,  American  Sonnets, 
and  his  Collection  of  English  Sonnets.  In  preparing 
the  Edition  of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets  he  consulted  Mr. 
Edward  Dowden  on  one  or  two  points  and  received  the 
following  reply: 

Davos  Platz,  Dec,  6,  1885. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

The  most  welcome  gift  of  your  Songs,  Poems  and  Son- 
nets of  Shakespeare  reached  me  to-night.  I  have  already 
looked  it  quickly  through,  and  have  seen  enough  to  know 
that  this  volume  will  be  my  constant  companion  in  fu- 
ture upon  all  my  wanderings.  Comparisons  are  odious. 
So  I  will  not  make  a  list  of  the  other  travelling  compan- 
ions, which  your  edition  of  Shakespeare's  lyrics  is  des- 
tined to  supersede. 

I  will  only  tell  you  why  yours  has  the  right  to  super- 
sede them.  First  and  foremost,  it  is  more  scientifically 
complete. 

Secondly,  it  is  invaluable  in  its  preservation  of  the 
play-atmosphere,  by  such  introductory  snatches  as  you 
insert  e.  g.  on  p.  20.  Hitherto,  we  had  often  yearned  in 
our  Shakespearean  anthologies  for  a  whiff  of  the  play 
from  which  the  songs  were  torn.  You  have  given 
this  just  where  it  was  needed,  and  else  not.  That  is 
right. 

Thirdly,  the  Preface  (to  my  mind  at  least)  is  more 
humanly  and  humanely  true  about  Shakespeare's  atti- 
tude in  the  Sonnets  than  anything  which  has  yet  been 
written  about  them. 


112  WILLIAM    SHARP 

(I  thank  you,  par  parenthese,  for  "  the  vox  humana  of 
Hamlet!")  And  apropos  of  p.  11,  I  think  you  might 
have  mentioned  Frangois  Victor  Hugo's  translation  of 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets.  It  is  a  curious  piece  of  French 
criticism.  But  the  main  thing  left  upon  my  mind  by  this 
first  cursory  perusal  is  that  you  are  one  of  those  who 
live  (as  Goethe  has  for  ever  put  it)  in  "  the  wholes  It 
is  the  great  thing  for  modem  criticism  to  get  itself  up 
out  of  holes  and  comers,  mere  personal  proclivities  and 
scholarly  niceties,  into  the  large  air  of  nature  and  of 
man. 

The  critic  who  does  this,  has  to  sacrifice  the  applause 
of  coteries  and  the  satisfaction  which  comes  from  "  dis- 
covering "  something  and  making  for  his  discovery  a  fol- 
lowing. 

But  I  am  sure  this  is  the  right  line  for  criticism,  and 
the  one  which  will  ultimately  prevail,  to  the  exclusion 
of  more  partial  ways. 

I  therefore,  who,  in  my  own  humble  way,  have 
tried  as  critic  to  preserve  what  Goethe  also  calls  the 
"  abiding  relations,"  bleibende  Verhdltnisse,  feel  spe- 
cially drawn  to  your  work  by  the  seal  of  largeness  set 
upon  it. 

You  test  Shakespeare  in  his  personal  poems  as  man, 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  whole;  and  this  seems  to  me 
eminently  scientific — right.  In  a  minor  point,  I  can  tell 
you,  as  no  one  else  could,  that  your  critical  instinct  is  no 
less  acute  than  generally  right.  You  have  quoted  one  of 
my  sonnets  in  the  notes.  This  Sonnet  was  written,  to 
myself  consciously,  under  the  Shakespearean  influence. 
The  influence  was  complex,  but  very  potent;  and  your 
discernment,  your  "spotting"  of  it, appears  to  me  that  you 
have  the  right  scent — fiuto  (as  Italians)  flair  (as  French- 
men call  that  subtle  penetration  into  the  recesses  of  a 
mind  regulated  by  style). 

Thank  you  from  my  heart  for  this  gift,  which  (I  hope, 
if  years  enough  are  given  me)  shall  wear  itself  out  in  the 
daily  service  of  your  friend, 

JoHx  Addington  Symonds. 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     113 

In  the  following  letter  to  Mr.  Symonds  the  Editor  ex- 
plained the  intention  of  his  collected  Sonnets  of  this  Cen- 
tury: 

My  dear  Mr.  Symonds,  12:11:85. 

I  am  shortly  going  to  bring  out  a  Selection  of  the  Best 
Sonnets  of  this  Century  (including  a  lengthy  Introduc- 
tory Essay  on  the  Sonnet  as  a  vehicle  of  poetic  thought, 
and  on  its  place  and  history  in  English  Literature) — and 
I  should  certainly  regard  it  as  incomplete  if  your  fine 
sonnet-work  were  unrepresented.  I  am  giving  an  aver- 
age of  two  to  each  writer  of  standing,  but  in  your  case 
I  have  allowed  for  five.  This  is  both  because  I  have  a 
genuine  admiration  for  your  sonnet-work  in  the  main, 
and  because  I  think  that  you  have  never  been  done  full 
justice  to  as  a  poet — though  of  course  you  have  met  with 
loyal  recognition  in  most  of  those  quarters  where  you 
would  most  value  it.  .  .  . 

I  have  taken  great  pleasure  in  the  preparation  of  the 
little  book,  and  I  think  that  both  poetically  and  technically 
it  will  be  found  satisfactory.  My  main  principles  in 
selection  have  been  (1)  Structural  correctness.  (2)  Indi- 
viduality, with  distinct  poetic  value.  (3)  Adequacy  of 
Sonnet-Motive. 

I  hope  that  you  are  hard  at  work — not  neglecting  the 
shyest  and  dearest  of  the  muses — ?  Is  there  any  chance 
of  your  being  in  London  in  the  late  Spring  ?    I  hope  so. 

Sincerely  yours, 

William  Sharp. 

In  the  preparation  of  the  volume  he  received  several 
interesting  communications  from  well-known  English 
sonnet  writers  from  which  I  select  four.  The  first  is  from 
the  Irish  poet  Aubrey  de  Vere ;  in  the  second  Mr.  George 
Meredith  answers  a  question  concerning  his  volume  of 
sequent  poems,  Modern  Love: 

CuBBAGH  Chase,  Adake, 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp,  Dec.  5,  1885. 

...  I  am  much  flattered  by  what  you  say  about  my 
sonnjets,  and  glad  that  you  like  them ;  but  I  hope  that  in 


114  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

selecting  so  many  as  five  for  your  volume  you  have  not 
displaced  sonnets  by  other  authors.  Sir  R.  Hamilton's 
are  indeed,  as  you  remark,  excellent,  and  I  rejoice  that 
you  are  making  them  better  known  than  they  have  been 
hitherto.  Wordsworth  once  remarked  to  me  that  he  had 
known  many  men  of  high  talents  and  several  of  real 
genius ;  but  that  Coleridge,  and  Sir  W.  H.  Hamilton  were 
the  only  men  he  had  known  to  whom  he  would  apply  the 
term  "  wonderful." 

Yours  faithfully, 

AUBEEY   DE    VeEE. 

BOXHILL,   DOBKING, 
Nov.  12,  1885. 

Deae  Sie, 

You  are  at  liberty  to  make  your  use  of  the  Sonnet  you 
have  named.  The  Italians  allow  of  16  lines,  under  the 
title  of  "  Sonnets  with  a  tail." 

But  the  lines  of  "  Modem  Love  "  were  not  designed  for 

that  form. 

Yours  very  truly, 
Geoege  Meeedith. 

The  third  letter  is  from  Mr.  Theodore  Watts-Dunton : 

The  Pines,  Putney  Hill, 

Jan.  8,  1886. 

My  deae  Shaep, 

I  sent  off  the  proofs  by  Wednesday  afternoon's  post. 
I  had  no  idea  that  the  arrangement  of  the  sonnets  would 
give  bother  and  took  care  to  write  to  you  to  ask.  The 
matter  was  not  at  all  important,  and  I  shall  be  vexed,  in- 
deed, if  the  printers  are  put  to  trouble.  The  printers 
would,  unless  the  snow  storms  interfered,  get  my  verses 
by  Thursday  morning's  first  post. 

My  theory  of  the  sonnet  is  exactly  expressed  in  the 
sonnet  on  the  sonnet.  It  is  that,  in  the  octave,  the  emo- 
tion flows  out  in  a  rhythmic  billow :  that  the  solidarity  of 
this  billow  is  maintained  by  knitting  the  two  quatrains 
together  by  means  of  two  rhyme  sounds  only :  that  in  the 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     115 

sestet  the  billow  ehhs  back  to  "  Life's  tumultuous  sea " 
and  that  like  the  ebb  of  an  ocean-billow  it  moves  back- 
ward, not  solidly,  but  broken  up  into  wavelets.  This  is 
only  the  arrangement  of  the  rhymes  in  the  sestet,  that 
not  only  need  hot  be  based  upon  any  given  system  but 
that  should  not  be  based  on  any  given  system,  and  should 
be  perceived  entirely  by  emotional  demands. 

Yours  affeotly, 

Theo.  Watts. 

The  fourth  letter  is  from  Oscar  Wilde : 

16  TiTE  St.,  Chelsea. 
Dear  Sir, 

It  will  give  me  much  pleasure  to  see  the  sonnets  you 
mention  included  in  your  selection.  Of  the  two,  I  much 
prefer  "  Libertatis  Sacra  Fames  " — and  if  only  one  is 
taken,  would  like  to  be  represented  by  that.  Indeed  I 
like  the  sonnets  on  p.  3  and  p.  16  of  my  volume  better 
than  the  one  written  in  Holy  Week  at  Genoa.  Perhaps 
however  this  is  merely  because  Art  and  Liberty  seem 
to  me  more  vital  and  more  religious  than  any  Creed.  I 
send  you  a  sonnet  I  wrote  at  the  Sale  of  Keats' s  love  let- 
ters some  months  ago.  What  do  you  think  of  it  1  It  has 
not  yet  been  published.  I  wonder  are  you  including  Ed- 
gar Allan  Poe's  sonnet  to  Science.  It  is  one  I  like  very 
much. 

I  will  look  forward  with  much  interest  to  the  appear- 
ance of  your  book. 

I  remain 

Truly  yours, 
Oscar  Wilde. 

on  the  sale  by  auction  of  keats's  love  letters 

These  are  the  letters  which  Endymion  wrote 

To  one  he  loved  in  secret,  and  apart. 

And  now  the  brawlers  of  the  auction  mart 
Bargain  and  bid  for  each  poor  blotted  note. 
Ay!   for  each  separate  pulse  of  passion  quote 

The  merchant's  price:  I  think  they  love  not  art, 

Who  break  the  crystal  of  a  poet's  heart 
That  small  and  sickly  eyes  may  glare  and  gloat! 


116  WILLIAM    SHARP 

Is  it  not  said  that  many  years  ago, 

In  a  far  Eastern  town,  some  soldiers  ran 
With  torches  through  the  midnight,  and  began 

To  wrangle  for  mean  raiment,  and  to  throw 
Dice  for  the  garments  of  a  wretched  man, 

Not  knowing  the  God's  wonder,  or  his  woe. 

I  wish  I  could  grave  my  sonnets  on  an  ivory  tablet — 
Quill  pens  and  note-paper  are  only  good  enough  for  bills 
of  lading.  A  sonnet  should  always  look  well.  Don't  you 
think  so? 

0.  W. 

The  success  of  the  volume  was  immediate,  and  a  second 
edition  followed  quickly.  For  it  I  begged  that  the  Editor 
would  include  some  sonnets  of  his  own.  He  had  refused 
to  do  so  for  the  1st  Edition,  but  he  now  yielded  to  my  wish 
and  included  two,  "  Spring  Wind  "  and  "  A  Midsummer 
Hour."  In  later  editions,  however,  he  took  them  out 
again  and  left  only  the  two  dedicatory  sonnets  to  D.  G. 
Eossetti,  for  he  considered  that  the  Editor  should  not  be 
represented  in  the  body  of  the  book.  The  volume  was 
generously  welcomed  by  contemporary  writers.  George 
Meredith  considered  it  the  best  exposition  of  the  Sonnet 
known  to  him;  to  Walter  Pater  the  Introductory  Essay 
was  "  most  pleasant  and  informing,"  and  "  Your  own 
beautiful  dedication  to  D.  G.  R.  seems  to  me  perfect,  and 
brought  back,  with  great  freshness,  all  I  have  felt,  and  so 
sincerely,  about  him  and  his  work." 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  expressed  his  views  on  the 
sonnet  in  a  letter  to  the  Editor : 

Skebeymoke   (  Bournemouth  ) . 

Deak  Sir, 

Having  at  last  taken  an  opportunity  to  read  your  pleas- 
ant volume,  it  has  had  an  effect  upon  me  much  to  be  re- 
gretted and  you  will  find  the  consequences  in  verse.  I 
had  not  written  a  serious  sonnet  since  boyhood,  when  I 
used  to  imitate  Milton  and  Wordsworth  with  surprising 
results :  and  since  I  have  fallen  again  by  your  procuring 
(a  procuration)  you  must  suifer  along  with  me. 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     117 

May  I  say  that  my  favourite  sonnet  in  the  whole  range 
of  your  book  is  Tennyson  Turner's  "The  Buoy-Bell"? 
Possibly  there  is  a  touch  of  association  in  this  prefer- 
ence; but  I  think  not.    No  human  work  is  perfect;  1jut 

that  is  near  enough. 

Yours  truly, 

RoBEET  Louis  Stevenson. 

The  form  of  my  so-called  sonnets  will  cause  you  as 
much  agony  as  it  causes  me  little.  I  am  base  enough  to 
think  the  main  point  of  a  sonnet  is  the  disjunction  of 
thought  coinciding  with  the  end  of  the  octave :  and  when 
a  lesser  disjunction  makes  the  quatrains  and  sestets  I  call 
it  an  ideal  sonnet ;  even  if  it  were  rhymed  anyhow.  But 
the  cross  rhyme,  tears — fear,  in  the  second  is,  even  in 
my  base  eyes,  a  vile  flaw. 

(Two  sonnets  were  enclosed  in  the  letter.) 

THE   ARABESQUE 
(Complaint  of  an  artist) 

I  made  a  fresco  on  tlie  coronal,  * 

Amid  the  sounding  silence  and  the  void 
Of  life's  wind-swept  and  unfrequented  ball. 

I  drew  the  nothings  that  my  soul  enjoyed; 
The  pretty  image  of  the  enormous  fact 

I  fled;  and  when  the  sun  soared  over  all 
And  threw  a  brightness  on  the  painted  tract, 

Lo,  the  vain  lines  were  reading  on  the  wall! 
In  vain  we  blink;  our  life  about  us  lies  * 

O'erscrawled  with  crooked  mist;  we  toil  in  vain 
To  hear  the  hymn  of  ancient  harmonies 

That  quire  upon  the  mountains  as  the  plain; 
And  from  the  august  silence  of  the  skies 

Babble  of  speech  returns  to  us  again. 

THE    TOUCH   OF   LIFE 

I  saw  a  circle  in  a  garden  sit 

Of  dainty  dames  and  solemn  cavaliers, 
Whereof  some  shuddered  at  the  burrowing  nit. 

And  at  the  carrion  worm  some  burst  in  tears; 
And  all,  as  envying  the  abhorred  estate 

Of  empty  shades  and  disembodied  elves, 
Under  the  laughing  stars,  early  and  late, 

Sat  shamefast  at  this  birth  and  at  themselves. 


118  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

The  keeper  of  the  house  of  life  is  fear: 
In  the  rent  lion  is  the  honey  found 
By  him  that  rent  it;  out  of  stony  ground 

The  toiler,  in  the  morning  of  the  year, 
Beholds  the  harvest  of  his  grief  abound 

And  the  green  corn  put  forth  the  tender  ear. 

William  Sharp  offered  to  include  "  The  Touch  of  Life  " 
in  the  body  of  the  book,  and  "  The  Arabesque  "  in  the 
Notes.    He  received  this  reply : 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

It  is  very  good  of  you,  and  I  should  like  to  be  in  one 
of  your  pleasant  and  just  notes;  but  the  impulse  was 
one  of  pure  imitation  and  is  not  like  to  return,  or  if  it 
did,  to  be  much  blessed.  I  have  done  so  many  things, 
and  cultivated  so  many  fields  in  literature,  that  I  think 
I  shall  let  the  "  scanty  plot "  lie  fallow.  I  forgot  to  say 
how  much  taken  I  was  with  Beaconsfield's  lines  (scarce 
a  sonnet  indeed)  on  Wellington.  I  am  engaged  with  the 
Duke,  and  I  believe  I  shall  use  them. 

I  think  the  "  Touch  of  Life  "  is  the  best  of  my  snap- 
shots; but  the  other  was  the  best  idea.  The  fun  of  the 
sonnet  to  me  is  to  find  a  subject;  the  workmanship  re- 
buts me. 

Thank  you  for  your  kind  expressions,  and  believe  me, 

Yours  truly, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

The  Editor  was  much  gratified  by  an  appreciative  let- 
ter from  John  Addington  Symonds  concerning  the  Edi- 
tion de  Luxe  of  his  Anthology : 

My  dear   Sharp,  Davos  Platz,  Nov.  28,  1886. 

I  have  just  received  my  copy  of  the  magnificent  edition 
of  your  Sonnets  of  this  Century  to  which  I  subscribed. 
It  is  indeed  a  noble  book.  Let  me  say  at  once  how  much  I 
think  you  have  improved  the  Preface.  There  are  one 
or  two  things  affecting  my  own  share  in  the  Collection 
to  which  I  should  like  to  call  your  attention. 

I  notice  that  in  pp.  xxvii-xxix  of  your  Introduction 
you  have  adopted  the  ideas  I  put  forth  (Academy^  Feb. 


SONNETS  OF  THIS  CENTURY     119 

13,  1886)  about  the  origin  of  the  Sonnet.  But  you  some- 
what confuse  the  argument  by  using  the  word  Stornello. 
If  you  look  at  Ancora's  Poesia  Popolare  Italiana  (Livano, 
Vigo),  pp.  175,  313,  you  will  see  that  Italians  regard  the 
stornello  (320)  as  a  totally  dijfferent  species  from  the 
rispetto.  I  have  explained  the  matter  in  my  Renaissance 
in  Italy,  Vol.  A.  p.  264.  I  admit  that  there  may  be  dif- 
ferences of  opinion  about  these  popular  species  of  verse. 
Yet  I  have  no  doubt  that  every  one  in  Italy,  a  Stornello 
being  mentioned,  would  think  at  once  of  a  single  coup- 
let prefaced  with  Fiore  di  granata  or  something  of  that 
sort.  However,  it  would  be  pedantic  to  insist  upon 
this  point.  I  only  do  so  because  I  believe  I  was  the  first 
to  indicate  the  probable  evolution  of  the  sonnet  from  the 
same  germ  as  the  Rispetto  Sesta  Rima,  and  Ottava  Rima ; 
and  I  am  distinctly  myself  of  opinion  that  the  Stornello 
is  quite  a  separate  offshoot. 

I  doubt  whether  Sonnets  in  Dialogue  be  so  rare  as  you 
imply  on  p.  43.  I  know  that  I  composed  one  for  Lady 
Kitty  Clive  in  1875.  It  is  printed  on  p.  117  of  my  Vaga- 
bunduli  Libellus.  I  do  not  esteem  it,  however,  and  only 
published  it  because  it  was  in  dialogue.  .  .  . 

Believe  me  very  truly  yours, 

J.  A.  Symonds. 

P.  S. — Pater  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine.  Watts  I 
never  met,  and  I  should  greatly  value  the  opportimity  of 
knowing  him  in  the  flesh — in  the  spirit,  I  need  hardly  say, 
he  has  long  been  known  to  me. 

This  postscript  reminds  me  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Pater, 
Mr.  Alfred  Austin,  and  Mr.  Theodore  Watts-Dunton  met 
together  one  evening  at  our  house.  I  especially  remem- 
ber the  occasion  because  of  an  incident  that  occurred, 
which  indicated  to  us  a  temperamental  characteristic  of 
Walter  Pater.  During  dinner  a  guest  asked  to  see  a  neck- 
lace I  was  wearing.  It  was  in  the  form  of  a  serpent  made 
of  silver  wire  deftly  interwoven  to  resemble  scales  and  to 
make  it  sinuous  and  supple.  I  unfastened  the  serpent 
and  as  I  handed  it  to  Mr.  Pater  who  was  nearest  me,  it 


120  WILLIAM   SHARP 

writhed  in  a  lifelike  manner,  and  he  drew  back  his  hands 
with  a  slight  movement  of  dislike.  In  a  flash  I  remem- 
bered the  passage  in  Marius  the  Epicurean  in  which  the 
hero's  dislike  to  serpents  is  so  vividly  described,  and  I 
realised  the  description  to  be  autobiographic.  Later  I  had 
occasion  to  note  the  same  effect.  My  husband  and  I  in  the 
early  summer  went  down  to  Oxford  so  that  I  might  meet 
the  Misses  Pater  at  their  brother's  house.  In  the  morn- 
ing I  had  seen  Mr.  Pater's  study  at  Brasenose,  and  was 
as  charmed  with  the  beauty  and  austerity  of  the  deco- 
ration, as  with  the  sense  of  quiet  and  repose.  In  the 
afternoon  it  was  proposed  that  I  should  be  shown  the 
Ifley  Woods.  My  husband,  always  glad  to  handle  the 
oars,  had,  however,  to  consent  to  being  rowed  by  one  of 
the  boat  attendants,  for  Mr.  Pater  with  the  timidity  of  a 
recluse  declined  to  trust  himself  to  the  unknown  capabil- 
ities of  one  whom  he  regarded  rather  as  a  townsman. 
As  Mr.  Pater  and  I  strolled  through  the  wood  I  suddenly 
noticed  that  my  companion  gave  a  little  start  and  directed 
my  attention  to  what  seemed  of  small  interest.  When, 
however,  we  rejoined  our  companions  Miss  Pater  asked 
her  brother  if  he  had  seen  the  dead  adder  lying  on  one 
side  of  the  path.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  turning  his 
head  on  one  side  with  a  gesture  of  aversion ;  "  but  I  did 
not  wish  Mrs.  Sharp  to  see  it." 

If  The  Sonnets  of  this  Century  gained  us  pleasant 
friendships  it  also  brought  upon  us  a  heavy  penalty.  For, 
within  the  next  year  or  two  we  were  inundated  with  let- 
ters and  appeals  from  budding  poets,  from  ambitious  and 
wholly  ignorant  would-be  sonneteers,  who  sent  sheafs  of 
sonnets  not  only  for  criticism  and  advice  but  now  and 
again  with  the  request  to  find  a  publisher  for  them!  A 
large  packet  arrived  one  day,  I  remember,  with  a  letter 
from  an  unknown  in  South  Africa.  The  writer  explained 
his  poetical  ambitions,  and  stated  that  he  forwarded 
for  consideration  a  hundred  sonnets.  On  examining  the 
packet  we  found  one  hundred  poems  varying  in  length 
from  twelve  to  twenty  lines,  but  not  a  solitary  sonnet 
among  them! 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE    SPORT   OF    CHANCE 

Shelley 

In  the  summer  of  1885  we  went  to  Scotland  and  looked 
forward  to  an  idyllic  month  on  West  Loch  Tarbert. 
While  staying  with  Mr.  Pater  in  Oxford  my  husband  had 
seen  the  advertisement  of  a  desirable  cottage  to  be  let 
furnished,  with  service,  and  garden  stocked  with  vege- 
tables. He  knew  the  neighbourhood  to  be  lovely,  the  at- 
traction was  great,  so  we  took  the  cottage  for  August, 
and  in  due  time  carried  our  various  MSS.  and  work  to 
the  idyllic  spot.  Beautiful  the  surroundings  were  indeed : 
— An  upland  moor  sloping  to  the  loch,  with  its  opposite 
hilly  shore  thickly  wooded.  The  cottage  was  simplicity 
itself  in  its  appointments,  but — the  garden  was  merely  a 
bit  of  railed-in  grass  field  destitute  of  plants;  the  vege- 
tables consisted  of  a  sack  of  winter  potatoes  quite  un- 
eatable, and  the  only  service  that  the  old  woman  owner 
would  give  was  to  light  the  fires  and  wash  up  the  dishes 
and  black  our  boots.  Everything  else .  devolved  on  me, 
for  help  I  could  get  nowhere  and  though  my  husband's  in- 
tentions and  efforts  in  that  direction  were  admirable, 
their  practical  qualities  ended  there!  Yet  to  all  the 
drawbacks  we  found  compensation  in  the  loveliness  of  the 
moorland,  the  peace  of  the  solitude,  and  in  the  magnificent 
sunsets.  One  sunset  I  remember  specially.  We  had  gone 
for  a  wander  westward.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
brown  horizon-line  of  the  moor,  and  the  sky  was  aflame 
with  its  glow.  Suddenly  we  heard  the  sound  of  the  pipes, 
sighing  a  Lament.  We  stopped  to  listen.  The  sound  came 
nearer,  and  we  saw  walking  over  the  brow  of  the  upland 
an  old  man  with  bag-pipes  and  streamers  outlined  against 
the  orange  sky.  We  drew  aside  into  a  little  hollow.  As 
he  neared  we  saw  he  was  gray  haired,  his  bonnet  and 

[121 


122  WILLIAM   SHARP 

clothes  were  old  and  weatherworn.  But  in  his  face  was 
a  rapt  expression  as  he  played  to  himself  and  tramped 
across  the  moor,  out  of  the  sunset  toward  the  fishing  vil- 
lage that  lay  yonder  in  the  cold  evening  light. 

The  summer  was  a  wet  one,  and  shortly  after  our  re- 
turn to  town  the  jDoet  developed  disquieting  rheumatic 
symptoms.  Nevertheless  we  were  both  hard  at  work 
with  the  reviewing  of  pictures  and  books,  and  among 
other  things  he  was  projecting  a  monograph  on  Shelley. 
It  was  about  this  time  I  think  that  he  decided  to  compete 
for  a  prize  of  £100  offered  by  the  Editor  of  The  People's 
Friend  for  a  novel  suited  to  the  requirements  of  that 
weekly,  and  these  requirements  of  course  dictated  the 
sensational  style  of  story.  It  was  my  husband's  one  at- 
tempt to  write  a  novel  in  three  volumes.  He  did  not  gain 
the  prize  but  the  story  ran  serially  through  The  People's 
Friend,  and  was  afterward  published  in  1887  by  Messrs. 
Hurst  and  Blackett.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Scotland  and  in 
Australia,  with  a  Prologue  dealing  with  Cornwall,  where 
he  had  once  spent  a  few  days  in  order  to  act  as  best  man 
to  one  of  his  fellow-passengers  on  the  sailing  ship  that 
brought  him  back  from  Australia. 

The  following  Review  from  The  Morning  Post  and 
letter  from  our  poet-friend  Mathilde  Blind  will  give  an 
idea  of  the  style  and  defects  of  the  novel: 

"  The  many  who  have  the  mental  courage  to  allow  that 
they  prefer  the  objective  to  the  subjective  novel  may  pass 
some  delightful  hours  in  the  perusal  of  Mr.  Sharp's  '  The 
Sport  of  Chance.'  It  has  prima  facie  an  undeniable  ad- 
vantage to  start  with,  i.  e.  it  is  unlike  almost  anything 
hitherto  written  in  the  shape  of  a  novel  in  three  vol- 
umes. Slightly  old-fashioned,  the  author's  manner  is 
simple  and  earnest,  while  he  shows  much  skill  in  unrav- 
elling the  tangled  skein  of  a  complicated  plot.  He  deals 
also  in  sensationalism,  but  this  is  of  a  peculiar  kind,  and 
it  rarely  violates  the  canons  of  probability.  To  south- 
erners his  highly-coloured  pictures  of  Highland  peasant 
life,  with  their  accompaniments  of  visions  and  second 


THE    SPORT   OF   CHANCE  123 

sight,  may  savour  of  exaggeration,  but  not  so  to  those 
whose  youth  has  been  past  amidst  similar  surroundings. 
Many  episodes  of  the  shipwrecks  of  '  The  Fair  Hope '  and 
'  The  Australasian,'  are  as  effective  as  the  best  of  those 
written  by  authors  who  make  a  specialty  of  '  Tales  of  the 
Sea.'  Hew  Armitage's  '  quest,'  in  Australia,  is  related 
with  graphic  force.  The  descriptions  of  the  natural  fea- 
tures of  the  country,  of  life  in  the  bush,  and  at  the  outly- 
ing settlements,  are  all  stamped  with  the  vivid  fidelity 
that  is  one  of  the  great  merits  of  the  book.  Charles 
Lamb,  alias  Cameron,  is  a  singular  conception.  Too  con- 
sistently wicked,  perhaps,  to  escape  the  reproach  of  being 
a  melo-dramatic  villain,  his  misdeeds  largely  contribute 
to  the  interest  of  this  exciting  novel." 

Nov.  6,  1888. 

Dear  William, 

.  .  .  Your  "  Sport  of  Chance  "  has  helped  me  to  while 
away  the  hours  and  certainly  you  have  crammed  sensa- 
tion enough  into  your  three  volumes  to  furnish  forth  a 
round  dozen  or  so.  The  opening  part  seemed  to  me  very 
good,  especially  the  description  of  the  storm  off  the 
Cornish  coast,  and  the  mystery  which  gradually  over- 
clouds Mona's  life,  but  her  death  and  the  advent  of  a  new 
set  of  characters  seems  to  me  to  cut  the  story  in  two, 
while  the  sensational  incidents  are  piled  on  like  Ossa  on 
Olympus.  What  seemed  best  to  me,  and  also  most  en- 
joyable to  my  taste  at  least,  are  the  personal  reminis- 
cences which  I  recognised  in  the  voyage  out  to  Australia 
and  the  descriptions  of  its  scenery,  full  of  life  and  fresh- 
ness. Most  of  all  I  liked  the  weird  picture  of  the  phos- 
phorescent sea  with  its  haunting  spectral  shapes.  You 
have  probably  seen  something  of  the  kind  and  ought  to 
have  turned  it  into  a  poem;  if  there  had  been  a  descrip- 
tion of  some  scene  like  it  in  your  last  volume  I  should 
doubtless  remember  it. 

With  best  love  to  Lillie, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

Mathilde  Blind. 


124  WILLIAM    SHARP 

The  opening  of  the  new  year  1886 — from  which  we 
hoped  much — was  unpropitions.  A  wet  winter  and  long 
hours  of  work  told  heavily  on  my  husband,  whose  ill- 
health  was  increased  by  the  enforced  silence  of  his  "  sec- 
ond self  "  for  whose  expression  leisure  was  a  necessary 
condition.  In  a  mood  of  dejection  induced  by  these  un- 
toward circumstances  he  sent  the  following  birthday 
greeting  to  his  friend  Eric  S.  Robertson : 

46  Talgabth  Road,  W. 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  join  with  Lillie  in  love  and  earnest  good  wishes  for 
you  as  man  and  writer.  Accept  the  accompanying  two 
sonnets  as  a  birthday  welcome. 

There  are  two  "  William  Sharp's  " — one  of  them  un- 
happy and  bitter  enough  at  heart,  God  knows — though  he 
seldom  shows  it.  This  other  poor  devil  also  sends  you  a 
greeting  of  his  own  kind.  Tear  it  up  and  forget  it,  if 
you  will. 

But  sometimes  I  am  very  tired — very  tired. 

Yours  ever,  my  dear  Eric, 

W.  S. 

TO   ERIC    SUTHERLAND    ROBERTSON 
(On  his  birthday,  18:  2:  86) 


Already  in  the  purple-tinted  woods 

The  loud-voiced  throstle  calls — sweet  echoings 
Down  leafless  aisles  that  dream  of  bygone  springs: 

Already    towards   their   northern    solitudes 

The  fieldfares  turn,  and  soaring  high,  wheel  broods 
Of  wild  swans  with  a  clamour  of  swift  wings: 
A  tremor  of  new  life  moves  through  all  things 

And  earth  regenerate  thrills  with  joyous  moods. 

Let  not  spring's  breath  blow  vainly  past  thine  heart. 
Dear  friend:    for  Time  grows  ruinously  apace: 
Yon  tall  white  lily  in  its  holy  grace 

The  winds  will  draggle  soon:   for  an  unseen  dart 
Moves  ever  hither  and  thither  through  each  place, 

Nor  know  we  when  or  how  our  lives  'twill  part. 


THE    SPORT    OF    CHANCE  125 

If 

A  little  thing  it  is  indeed  to  die: 

God's  seal  to  sanctify  the  soul's  advance — 

Or  silence,  and  a  long  enfevered  trance. 
But  no  slight  thing  is  it — ere  the  last  sigh 
Leaves  the  tired  heart,  ere  calm  and  passively 

The  worn  face  reverent  grows,  fades  the  dim  glance — 

To  pass  away  and  pay  no  recompense 
To  Life,  who  liatli  given  to  us  so  gloriously. 

Not  so  for  thee — within  whose  heart  lie  deep 

As  ingots  'neath  the  waves,  thoughts  true  and  fair. 
Nor  ever  let  thy  soul  the  burden  bear, 

Of  having  life  to  live  yet  choosing  sleep: 

Yea  even  if  thine  the  dark  and  slippery  stair, 

Better  to  toil  and  climb  than  wormlike  creep. 

In  the  early  spring  my  husband  was  laid  low  with  scar- 
let fever  and  phlebitis.  Recovery  was  slow,  and  at  the 
press  view  of  the  Royal  Academy  he  caught  a  severe  chill ; 
the  next  day  he  was  in  the  grip  of  a  prolonged  attack 
of  rheumatic  fever.  For  many  days  his  life  hung  in  the 
balance. 

During  much  of  the  suffering  and  tedium  of  those  long 
weeks  the  sick  man  passed  in  a  dream-world  of  his  own; 
for  he  had  the  power  at  times  of  getting  out  of  or  beyond 
his  normal  consciousness  at  will.  At  first  he  imagined 
himself  the  owner  of  a  gipsy  travelling-van,  in  which  he 
wandered  over  the  to  him  well-known  and  much-loved 
solitudes  of  Argyll,  resting  where  the  whim  dictated  and 
visiting  his  many  fisher  and  shepherd  friends.  Later, 
during  the  long  crises  of  the  illness,  though  unconscious 
often  of  all  material  surroundings,  he  passed  through 
other  keen  inner  phases  of  consciousness,  through  psychic 
and  dream  experiences  that  afterward  to  some  extent 
were  woven  into  the  Fiona  Macleod  writings,  and,  as  he 
believed,  were  among  the  original  shaping  influences  that 
produced  them.  For  a  time  he  felt  himself  to  be  prac- 
tically dead  to  the  material  world,  and  acutely  alive  "  on 
the  other  side  of  things  "  in  the  greater  freer  imiverse. 
He  had  no  desire  to  return,  and  rejoiced  in  his  freedom 
and  greater  powers ;  but,  as  he  described  it  afterward,  a 


126  WILLIAM   SHAKP 

hand  suddenly  restrained  him :  "  Not  yet,  you  must  re- 
turn." And  he  believed  he  had  been  "  freshly  sensi- 
tised "  as  he  expressed  it ;  and  knew  he  had — as  I  had 
always  believed — some  special  work  to  do  before  he  could 
again  go  free. 

The  illusion  of  his  wanderings  with  the  travelling  van 
was  greatly  helped  by  the  thoughtfulness  of  his  new 
friend  Ernest  Ehys  who  brought  him  branches  of  trees 
in  early  leaf  from  the  country.  These  I  placed  upright 
in  the  open  window;  and  the  fluttering  leaves  not  only 
helped  his  imagination  but  also  awoke  "  that  dazzle  in 
the  brain,"  as  he  always  described  the  process  which 
led  him  over  the  borderland  of  the  physical  into  the 
"  gardens  "  of  psychic  consciousness  or,  as  he  called  it, 
"  into  the  Green  Life." 

At  the  end  of  ten  weeks  he  left  his  bed.  As  soon  as 
possible  I  took  him  to  Northbrook,  Micheldever,  the 
country  house  of  our  kind  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry- 
son  Caird,  who  put  it  at  our  disposal  for  six  weeks. 
Slowly  his  strength  came  back  in  these  warm  summer 
days,  as  he  lay  contentedly  in  the  sunshine.  But  as  he 
began  to  exert  himself  new  disquieting  symptoms  devel- 
oped. His  heart  proved  to  be  badly  affected  and  his 
recovery  was  proportionately  retarded. 

The  Autumn  found  us  face  to  face  with  problems  hard 
to  solve,  how  to  meet  not  only  current  expenses  but  also 
serious  debt,  with  a  limited  stock  of  precarious  strength. 
At  the  moment  of  blackest  outlook  the  invalid  received 
a  generous  friendly  letter  from  Mr.  Alfred  Austin  en- 
closing a  substantial  cheque.  The  terms  in  which  it  was 
offered  were  as  kindly  sympathetic  as  the  thought  which 
prompted  them.  He  had,  he  said,  once  been  helped  in 
a  similar  way  with  the  injunction  to  repay  the  loan  not 
to  the  donor  but  to  some  one  else  who  stood  in  need. 
Therefore  he  now  offered  it  with  the  same  conditions 
attached.  During  the  long  months  of  illness  it  had  been 
a  constant  source  of  regret  to  us  that  we  were  unable  to 
see  Philip  Marston  or  to  read  to  him  as  was  our  habit. 
"We  were  anxious,  too,  for  in  the  autumn  he  had  been 


THE   SPORT   OF   CHANCE  127 

prostrated  by  a  heat  stroke,  followed  by  an  epileptic 
seizure.  At  last,  on  Christmas  day  1886  William  Sharp 
went  to  see  him  and  spent  an  hour  or  so  with  him.  As 
he  tells  in  his  prefatory  Memoir  to  Marston's  "  Song- 
tide"  {Canterbury  Poets):  "He  was  in  bed  and  I  was 
shocked  at  the  change — as  nearly  a  year  had  elapsed 
since  I  had  seen  him  I  found  the  alteration  only  too 
evident.  .  .  .  Throughout  the  winter  his  letters  had  been 
full  of  foreboding :  '  You  will  miss  me,  perhaps,  when  I 
am  gone,  but  you  need  not  mourn  for  me.  I  think  few 
lives  have  been  so  deeply  sad  as  mine,  though  I  do  not 
forget  those  who  have  blessed  it.'  " 

This  was  the  keynote  to  each  infinitely  sad  letter. 

"  On  the  last  day  of  January  1887  paralysis  set  in,  and 
for  fourteen  days,  he  lay  speechless  as  well  as  sightless, 
but  at  last  he  was  asleep  and  at  peace.  Looking  at  his 
serene  face  on  the  day  ere  the  coffin  lid  enclosed  it,  where 
something  lovelier  than  mortal  sleep  subtly  dwelt,  there 
was  one  at  least  of  his  friends  who  forgot  all  sorrow  in  a 
great  gladness  for  the  blind  poet — now  no  longer  blind, 
if  he  be  not  overwhelmed  in  a  sleep  beyond  our  ken. 
At  such  a  moment  the  infinite  satisfaction  of  Death  seems 
beautiful  largess  for  the  turmoil  of  a  few  '  dark  disas- 
trous years.' " 

The  Spring  of  1887  brought  a  more  kindly  condition 
of  circumstances  to  us,  in  the  form  of  good  steady  work. 
Mr.  Eric  Robertson  had  then  been  selected  to  fill  the 
vacant  chair  of  Literature  and  Logic  at  the  University 
of  Lahore,  and,  on  accepting,  he  suggested  to  Mr.  Joseph 
Henderson  that  William  Sharp  should  be  his  successor 
as  Editor  of  the  "  Literary  Chair  "  in  The  Young  Folk's 
Paper — the  boys'  weekly  paper  for  which  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  had  written  his  "  Treasure  Island."  "  The 
Literary  Olympic  "  was  a  portion  of  the  paper  devoted  to 
the  efforts  in  prose  and  verse  of  the  Young  Folk  who 
wished  to  exercise  their  budding  literary  talents.  Their 
papers  were  examined,  criticised ;  a  few  of  the  most  mer- 
itorious were  printed,  prefaced  by  an  article  of  criticism 
and  instruction  written  by  their  Editor  and  critic.    The 


128  WILLIAM    SHARP 

work  itself  was  congenial;  and  the  interest  was  height- 
ened by  the  fact  that  it  put  us  into  touch  with  the  youth 
of  all  classes,  in  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  in  town 
and  country,  alike.  Several  of  the  popular  novelists  and 
essayists  of  to-day  received  the  chief  early  training  in 
the  "  Olympic."  Many  were  the  confidential  personal 
letters  to  the  unknown  editor,  who  was  imagined  by  one 
or  two  young  aspirants  to  be  white-haired  and  vener- 
able. This  work,  moreover  could  be  done  at  home,  by  us 
both;  and  it  brought  a  reliable  income,  a  condition  of 
security  hitherto  unknown  to  us,  which  proved  an  excel- 
lent tonic  to  the  delicate  Editor. 

In  August  a  letter  came  from  Mr.  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton  suggesting  the  possibility  that  an  original  poem. 
The  Ode  to  Mother  Carey's  Chicken  contributed  to  my 
little  anthology  Sea-Music,  should  be  re-printed  in  The 
Young  Folk's  Paper: 

"  I  do  especially  want  it  to  be  read  by  boys,"  he  wrote, 
"who  would  understand  and  appreciate  it  thoroughly." 
The  poem  appeared ;  and  drew  forth  an  appreciative  let- 
ter from  a  young  blacksmith  who  had  sent  contributions 
to  "  The  Literary  Olympic."  Mr.  Watts-Dunton's  ac- 
knowledgment to  the  "  Editor  "  was  thus  expressed: 

"  I  have  seen  the  poem  in  the  paper  and  am  much 
gratified  to  be  enabled  to  speak,  thus,  to  thousands  of 
the  boys  of  Great  Britain,  the  finest — by  far  the  finest — 
boys  in  the  world  as  I  always  think.  It  was  a  friendly 
act  on  your  part  and  the  preliminary  remarks  are  most 
kind  and  touching. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  that  your  indisposition  has,  by  this 
time,  left  you,  and  shall  be  glad  to  get  a  line  to  say  that 
it  has.  The  young  man's  letter  is  most  interesting.  What 
pleases  me  most  is  the  manly  pride  he  takes  in  his  busi- 
ness. A  blacksmith  is  almost  the  only  artisan  whose  occu- 
pation is  tinged  with  the  older  romance  as  Gabriel  *  often 
used  to  say.    I  love  still  to  watch  them  at  the  forge — the 

*  D.  G.  Rossetti. 


THE    SPORT    OF    CHANCE  129 

sparks  flying  round  them.     I  hope  he  may  not  forsake 
such  a  calling  for  the  literary  struggle." 

In  the  early  part  of  the  year  "  The  Sport  of  Chance  " 
had  run  serially  through  The  People's  Friend.  Its  suc- 
cess incited  the  author  to  write  a  sensational  boys'  story 
for  The  Young  Folk's  Paper;  and  accordingly  in  the 
Xmas  number  of  that  weekly  appeared  the  first  install- 
ment of  "  Under  the  Banner  of  St.  James,"  a  tale  of  the 
conquest  of  Peru.  This  story  was  followed  at  intervals 
by  others  such  as  "  The  Secret  of  the  Seven  Fountains," 
"Jack  Noel's  Legacy,"  "The  Red  Riders."  Although 
the  weaving  of  these  sensational  plots  was  a  great  enjoy- 
ment to  the  writer  of  them,  he  at  no  time  regarded  them 
as  other  than  useful  pot-boilers. 

A  letter  written  about  this  time  to  the  Ajnerican  poet 
E.  C.  Stedman  led  to  a  life-long  friendship  with  him  of 
so  genial  a  nature  that,  on  becoming  personally  ac- 
quainted in  New  York  two  years  later,  the  older  poet 
laughingly  declared  that  he  adopted  the  younger  man 
from  across  the  seas  as  his  "  English  son." 

In  an  article  on  "  British  Song "  in  The  Victorian 
Poets,  the  Scottish  poet  was  referred  to  as  a  Colonial. 
He  wrote  to  the  author  to  point  out  the  mistake  "  since 
you  are  so  kindly  going  to  do  me  the  honour  of  mention 
in  your  forthcoming  supplementary  work,  I  should  not 
like  to  be  misrepresented." 

In  replying  Mr.  Stedman  explained  that  no  great  harm 
has  been  done : 

Something  in  your  work  made  me  suspect  that,  de- 
spite your  Australian  tone,  etc.,  you  did  not  hail  (as  we 
Yankees  say)  from  the  Colonies.  So  you  will  find  in  my 
new  vol.  of  Victorian  Poets  that  I  do  not  place  you  with 
the  Colonial  poets,  but  just  preceding  them,  and  I  have 
a  reference  to  your  Rosetti  volume.  The  limited  space 
afforded  by  my  supplementary  chapter  has  made  my 
references  to  the  new  men  altogether  too  brief  and  in- 
adequate.   Of  this  I  am  seriously  aware,  but  trust  that 


130  WILLIAM    SHARP 

you  and  otliers  will  take  into  consideration  the  scope  and 
aim  of  the  chapter.  You  see  I  have  learned  that  "  The 
Human  Inheritance  "  is  scarce !  Of  course  I  shall  value 
greatly  a  copy  from  the  author's  hands.  And  I  count 
among  the  two  pleasant  things  connected  with  my  prose 
work — my  earlier  and  natural  metier  being  that  of  a  poet 
— such  letters  as  yours,  which  put  me  into  agreeable  rela- 
tions with  distant  comrades-in-arms. 

Beginning,  as  you  have,  with  the  opening  of  a  new 
literary  period,  and  with  what  you  have  already  done,  I 
am  sure  you  have  a  fine  career  before  you — that  will 
extend  long  after  your  American  Reviewer  has  ceased  to 
watch  and  profit  by  its  course. 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

Edmuistd  C.  Stedman. 

A  few  months  later  Mr.  Stedman  wrote  again : 

New  York,  March  27,  1888. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

Let  me  thank  you  heartily,  if  somewhat  tardily,  for 
your  very  handsome  and  magnanimous  review  of  the 
Victorian  Poets.  It  breathes  the  spirit  of  fairness — and 
even  generosity — throughout.  You  have  been  more  than 
"  a  little  blind  "  to  my  faults,  and  to  my  virtues  most 
open-eyed  and  "  very  kind "  indeed.  I  am  sufficiently 
sure  of  my  own  purpose  to  believe  that  you  have  groimd 
for  perceiving  that  the  spirit  of  my  major  criticisms  is 
essential,  rather  than  merely  "  technical."  I  look  more  to 
the  breadth  and  imagination  of  the  poet  than  to  minute 
details — though  a  stickler  for  natural  melody  and  the 
lasting  canons  of  art.  The  real  value  of  the  book  lies,  of 
course,  in  the  chapters  on  some  of  the  elder  poets.  You 
are  quite  right  in  pointing  out  the  impossibility  of  cor- 
rect proportion  in  the  details  of  the  last  chapter.  It  is 
added  to  give  more  completeness  to  the  work  as  a  whole. 
For  the  same  reason,  the  earlier  chapters  on  "  The  Gen- 
eral Choir  "  were  originally  introduced ;  but  in  them  I 
knew  my  ground  better,  and  could  point  out  with  more 
assurance  the  tendencies  of  the  various  "  groups."    But 


THE    SPORT   OF    CHANCE  131 

I  write  merely  to  say  that  I  am  heartily  satisfied  with 
your  criticism,  and  grateful  for  it ;  and  that  I  often  read 
your  other  reviews  with  advantage — and  shall  watch  your 
career,  already  so  fruitful,  with  great  interest.  A  man 
who  comes  down  to  first  principles  and  looks  at  things 
broadly,  as  you  are  doing,  is  sure  in  the  end  to  be  a  man 
of  mark. 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

Edmund  C.  Stedman. 

One  desirable  result  of  this  good  fortune  was  a  change 
of  residence  to  a  higher  part  of  the  town,  where  the  air 
was  purer,  and  access  to  green  fields  easier.  To  this  end 
in  the  Spring  of  1887  we  took  a  little  house  for  three 
years  in  Goldhurst  Terrace,  South  Hampstead.  As  it 
was  numbered  17«,  much  annoyance  was  caused  as  our 
letters  frequently  were  delivered  at  No.  17.  A  name  there- 
fore had  to  be  found,  and  we  dubbed  our  new  home  Wes- 
cam,  a  name  made  up  of  the  initials  of  my  husband,  my- 
self and  our  friend  Mrs.  Caird  whose  town  house  was 
within  two  minutes'  walk  of  us.  There  was  a  sunny  study 
for  the  invalid  on  the  ground  floor,  to  obviate  as  much 
as  possible  the  need  of  going  up  and  down  stairs.  The 
immediate  improvement  in  his  health  from  the  higher 
air  and  new  conditions  was  so  marked  that  we  had  every 
reason  to  hope  it  would  before  many  months  be  practi- 
cally re-established. 

The  most  important  undertaking  after  the  long  illness 
was  the  monograph  on  Shelley  written  for  Great  Writ- 
ers' Series  (Walter  Scott)  and  published  in  the  autumn 
of  1887.  It  was  a  work  of  love,  for  Shelley  had  been 
the  inspiring  genius  of  his  youth,  the  chief  influence  in 
his  verse  till  he  knew  Rossetti.  He  was  in  sympathy  with 
much  of  Shelley's  thought :  with  his  hatred  of  rigid  con- 
ventionality, of  the  tyranny  of  social  laws;  with  his  an- 
tagonism to  existing  marriage  and  divorce  laws,  with  his 
belief  in  the  sanctity  of  passion  when  called  forth  by  high 
and  true  emotion.    He  exclaimed  that 

"  It  is  my  main  endeavour  in  this  short  life  of  Shelley 


132  WILLIAM   SHARP 

to  avoid  all  misstatement  and  exaggeration;  to  give  as 
real  a  narrative  of  kis  life  from  the  most  reliable  sources 
as  lies  within  my  power ;  to  recomit  without  detailed  criti- 
cism and  as  simply  and  concisely  as  practicable,  the  rec- 
ord of  his  poetic  achievements.  To  this  end  I  shall  chiefly 
rely  on  anecdote  and  explanatory  detail,  or  poems  and 
passages  noteworthy  for  their  autobiographical  or  idio- 
syncratic value,  and  on  indisputable  facts." 

He  proposed  merely  to  give  a  condensation  of  all  really 
important  material;  and  based  his  monograph  mainly 
on  Professor  Dowden's  memorable  work  (then  recently 
published).  Many  statements  written  by  William  Sharp 
about  Shelley  may  be  quoted  as  autobiographic  of  him- 
self. For  instance :  "  From  early  childhood  he  was  a 
mentally  restless  child.  Trifles  unnoticed  by  most  chil- 
dren seem  to  have  made  keen  and  permanent  impression 
on  him — the  sound  of  wind,  the  leafy  whisper  of  trees, 
running  water.  The  imaginative  faculties  came  so  early 
into  play,  that  the  unconscious  desire  to  create  resulted 
in  the  invention  of  weird  tales  sometimes  based  on  remote 
fact  in  the  experience  of  more  or  less  weird  hallucina- 
tions." 

Or  again :  "  The  fire  of  his  mind  for  ever  consuming  his 
excitable  body,  his  swift  and  ardent  emotions,  his  over 
keen  susceptibilities  all  combined  to  increase  the  frailty 
of  his  physical  health."  Or  this  in  particular :  "  He  did 
not  outgrow  his  tendency  to  invest  every  new  and  sym- 
pathetic correspondent  (and  I  would  add,  friend)  with 
lives  of  ideal  splendour." 

And  in  explanation  of  each  idealization  appearing  to 
him  "  as  the  type  of  that  ideal  Beauty  which  had  haunted 
his  imagination  from  early  boyhood,"  he  adds :  "  No  fel- 
low mortal  could  have  satisfied  the  desire  of  his  heart. 
Perhaps  this  almost  fantastic  yearning  for  the  unattain- 
able— this  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star — is  the  heritage 
of  many  of  us.  It  is  a  longing  that  shall  be  insatiable 
even  in  death."  With  Shelley  he  might  have  said  of  him- 
self :  "  I  think  one  is  always  in  love  with  something  or 
other;  the  error — and  I  confess  it  is  not  easy  for  spirits 


THE    SPORT    OF    CHANCE  133 

cased  in  flesh  and  blood  to  avoid  it — consists  in  seeking 
in  a  mortal  image  the  likeness  of  what  is,  perhaps,  eter- 
nal." 

From  the  many  letters  the  biographer  received  after 
the  publication  of  his  book  I  select  three : 

Beasenose  College,  Nov.  23J. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  am  reading  your  short  life  of  Shelley  with  great 
pleasure  and  profit.  Many  thanks  for  your  kindness  in 
sending  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  with  a  full,  nay !  an  enthu- 
siastic, appreciation  of  Shelley  and  his  work,  you  unite 
a  shrewdness  and  good  sense  rare  in  those  who  have 
treated  this  subject.  And  then  your  book  is  pleasant 
and  effective,  in  contrast  to  a  French  book  on  Shelley 
of  which  I  read  reluctantly  a  good  deal  lately.  Your  book 
leaves  a  very  definite  image  on  the  brain. 

With  sincere  kind  regards, 

Very  truly  yours, 

Walter  Pater. 

CiMiEZ,  PKES  Nice, 

22(i  Dec,    1887. 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  wonder  how  it  is  with  you  now,  whether  you  are  bet- 
ter, which  I  sincerely  hope,  and  already  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight!  but  I  suppose  you  will  only  go  after  Christmas. 
To-day  it  is  so  cold  here  that  I  wonder  what  it  must  be 
like  with  you ;  there  is  snow  on  the  mountains  behind  the 
house  and  the  sea  looks  iron-gray  and  ungenial. 

I  never  told  you  I  think  how  much  I  liked  your  "  Shel- 
ley," which  I  think  gives  a  very  succinct  and  fair  state- 
ment of  the  poet's  life  and  works.  It  is  just  what  is 
wanted  by  the  public  at  large,  and  I  thought  your  remarks 
on  Shelley's  relations  with  Harriet  exceedingly  sympa- 
thetic and  to  the  point ;  as  well  as  what  you  say  touching 
his  married  life  with  Mary ;  the  passage  on  page  98  con- 
cerning this  disenchantment  with  all  mortal  passion 
struck  me  as  most  happily  felt  and  expressed.    I  have 


134  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

only  one  fault  to  find  with  you,  and  that  you  will  tliink 
a  very  selfish  one  (so  you  must  excuse  it),  to  wit  that 
when  speaking  of  The  Revolt  of  Islam  you  did  not  men- 
tion in  a  line  or  so  that  I  was  the  first  writer  who  pointed 
out,  first  in  the  "  Westminster  Review  "  and  afterward 
in  my  Memoir  of  the  poet,  that  in  Cythna  Shelley  had  in- 
troduced a  new  type  of  Woman  into  poetry.  I  am  rather 
proud  of  it,  and  as  it  was  mentioned  by  several  of  Shel- 
ley's subsequent  biographers  I  would  have  been  pleased 
to  have  seen  it  in  a  volume  likely  to  be  so  popular  as 
yours. 

But  enough  of  this  small  matter. 

I  wish  you  and  your  dear  wife  health  and  happiness. 

Ever  yours, 

Mathilde  Blind. 

Box  Hill    (Dobking), 

Feb.  13,   1888. 

Dear  Me.  Sharp, 

I  have  read  your  book  on  Shelley,  and  prefer  it, 
matched  with  the  bulky.  Putting  out  of  view  Matthew 
Arnold's  very  lofty  lift  of  superterrestrial  nose  over  the 
Godwin  nest,  one  inclines  to  agree  with  him  about  our 
mortal  business  of  Shelley.  We  shall  be  coming  next 
to  medical  testimony,  with  expositions.  You  have  said 
just  enough,  and  in  the  right  tones.  Yesterday  a  detach- 
ment of  the  Sunday  tramps  under  Leslie  Stephen 
squeezed  at  the  table  in  the  small  dining-room  you  know, 
after  a  splendid  walk  over  chalk  and  sand.  When  you 
are  in  the  mood  to  make  one  of  us,  give  me  note  of  warn- 
ing, and  add  to  the  pleasure  by  persuading  your  wife  to 
come  with  you. 

And  tell  her  that  this  invitation  would  be  more  courtly 
were  I  addressing  her  directly. 

I  am, 
Very  truly  yours, 
George  Meredith, 


CHAPTER   VIII 

ROMANTIC    BALLADS 

The  Children  of  To-morrow 

The  three  years  spent  at  Wescam  were  happy  years, 
full  of  work  and  interest.  Slowly  but  steadily  as  health 
was  re-established,  the  command  over  work  increased, 
and  all  work  was  planned  with  the  hope  that  before  very 
long  William  should  be  able  to  devote  himself  to  the  form 
of  imaginative  work  that  he  knew  was  germinating  in  his 
mind.  Meanwhile  he  had  much  in  hand.  Critical  work 
for  many  of  the  weeklies,  a  volume  of  poems  in  prepara- 
tion, and  a  monograph  on  Heine,  were  the  immediate  pre- 
occupations. 

Romantic  Ballads  and  Poems  of  Phantasy  was  pub- 
lished in  the  spring  (Walter  Scott).  The  poems  had  been 
written  at  different  times  during  the  previous  five  or  six 
years.  "  The  Son  of  Allan  "  had  met  with  the  approval 
of  Rossetti,  whose  influence  was  commented  upon  by  cer- 
tain of  the  critics.  The  book  was  well  received  both  in 
England  and  America.  The  Boston  Literary  World  con- 
sidered that  in  such  poems  as  "  The  Isle  of  Lost  Dreams," 
"  Twin  Souls,"  and  "  The  Death  Child  "  "  a  conjuring 
imagination  rises  to  extraordinary  beauty  of  conception." 
These  three  poems  are  undoubtedly  forerunners  of  the 
work  of  the  "  Fiona  Macleod  "  period.  In  the  Preface  the 
writer  stated  his  conviction  that  "  a  Romantic  Revival  is 
imminent  in  our  poetic  literature,  a  true  awakening  of 
genuinely  romantic  sentiment.  The  most  recent  phase 
thereof,"  however,  "  that  mainly  due  to  Rossetti,  has  not 
fulfilled  the  hopes  of  those  who  saw  in  it  the  prelude 
to  a  new  great  poetic  period.  It  has  been  too  literary, 
inherently,  but  more  particularly  in  expression. .  . .  Spon- 
taneity it  has  lacked  supremely.  ...  It  would  seem  as  if 
it  had  already  become  mythical  that  the  supreme  merit  of 

135 


136  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

a  poem  is  not  perfection  of  art,  but  the  quality  of  the 
imagination  which  is  the  source  of  such  real  or  approx- 
imate perfection.  ...  In  a  sense,  there  is  neither  Youth 
nor  Age  in  Romance,  it  is  the  quintessence  of  the  most 
vivid  emotions  of  life."  And  further  on  he  voices  the 
very  personal  belief  "  Happy  is  he  who,  in  this  day  of 
spiritual  paralysis,  can  still  shut  his  eyes  for  a  while  and 
dream." 

Concerning  the  idea  of  fatality  that  underlies  the  open- 
ing ballad  "  The  Weird  of  Michel  Scott  " — "  meant  as  a 
lyrical  tragedy,  a  tragedy  of  a  soul  that  finds  the  face  of 
disastrous  fate  set  against  it  whithersoever  it  turn  in  the 
closing  moments  of  mortal  life,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend, 
"  What  has  always  impressed  me  deeply — how  deeply  I 
can  scarcely  say — is  the  blind  despotism  of  fate.  It  is 
manifested  in  ^schylus,  in  Isaiah  and  in  the  old  Hebrew 
Prophets,  in  all  literature,  in  all  history  and  in  life.  This 
blind,  terrible,  indifferent  Fate,  this  tyrant  Chance,  stays 
or  spares,  mutilates  or  rewards,  annihilates  or  passes  by 
without  heed,  without  thought,  with  absolute  blankness 
of  purpose,  aim,  or  passion.  .  .  . 

''  I  am  tortured  by  the  passionate  desire  to  create 
beauty,  to  sing  something  of  '  the  impossible  songs '  I 
have  heard,  to  utter  something  of  the  rhythm  of  life  that 
has  most  touched  me.  The  next  volume  of  romantic 
poems  will  be  daringly  of  the  moment,  vital  with  the  life 
and  passion  of  to-day  (I  speak  hopefully,  not  with  arro- 
gant assurance,  of  course),  yet  not  a  whit  less  romantic 
than  '  The  Weird  of  Michel  Scott '  or  '  The  Death  Child.'  " 

Many  encouraging  and  appreciative  letters  reached 
him  from  friends  known  and  unknown. 

In  Mr.  William  Allingham's  opinion  "  Michel  Scott 
clothing  his  own  Soul  with  Hell-fire  is  tremendous!  " 

Professor  Edward  Dowden  was  not  wholly  in  accord 
with  the  poet's  views,  as  expressed  in  the  Introduction: 

Rathmines,  Dubun, 

My  dear  Sharp,  J"^y  i^'  i^^^- 

It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  get  your  new  volume  from 
yourself.    I  think  that  a  special  gift  of  yours,  and  one 


ROMANTIC   BALLADS  137 

not  often  possessed,  appears  in  this  volume  of  romance 
and  phantasy.  I  don't  find  it  possible  to  particularise 
one  poem  as  showing  its  presence  more  than  another,  for 
the  unity  of  the  volume  comes  from  its  presence.  And  I 
rejoice  at  anything  which  tends  to  make  this  last  quarter 
of  the  century  other  than  what  I  feared  it  would  be — a 
period  of  collecting  and  arranging  facts,  with  perhaps 
such  generalisations  as  specialists  can  make.  (Not  that 
this  is  not  valuable  work,  but  if  it  is  the  sole  employ- 
ment of  a  generation  what  an  ill  time  for  the  imagination 
and  the  emotions !)  At  the  same  time  I  don't  think  I  should 
make  any  demand,  if  I  could,  for  Romance.  I  should  not 
put  forth  any  manifesto  in  its  favour,  for  this  reason — 
that  the  leaders  of  a  movement  of  phantasy  and  romance 
will  have  such  a  sorry  following.  The  leaders  of  a  school 
which  overvalued  form  and  teclmique  may  have  been 
smaller  men  than  the  leaders  of  a  romantic  school,  yet 
still  their  followers  were  learning  something;  but  while 
the  chiefs  of  the  romantic  and  phantastic  movement  will 
be  men  of  genius,  what  a  lamentable  crowd  the  discijoles 
will  be,  who  will  try  to  be  phantastic  prepense.  We  shall 
have  the  horrors  of  the  spasmodic  school  revived  with- 
out that  element  of  a  high,  vague,  spiritual  intention 
which  gave  some  nobility — or  pseudo-nobility — to  the  dis- 
ciples of  the  spasmodists.  We  shall  have  every  kind  of 
extravagance  and  folly  posing  as  poetry. 

The  way  to  control  or  check  this  is  for  the  men  who 
have  a  gift  for  romance  to  use  that  gift — which  you  have 
done — and  to  prove  that  phantasy  is  not  incoherence  but 
has  its  own  laws.  And  they  ought  to  discourage  any  and 
every  one  from  attempting  romance  who  has  not  a  genius 
for  romance. 

Sincerely  yours, 

E.    DOWDEN. 

Meanwhile,  the  author  of  the  ballads  was  at  work  pre- 
paring two  volumes  for  the  Canterbury  Series — a  volume 
of  selected  Odes,  and  one  of  American  Sonnets,  to  which 
he  contributed  prefaces — and  writing  critical  articles  for 


138  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

the  Academy,  Atlienceum,  Literary  World,  etc.  Various 
important  books  were  published  that  spring,  and  among 
those  which  came  into  his  hands  to  write  about  were 
Underwoods  by  R.  L.  Stevenson,  In  Hospital  by  W.  Hen- 
ley; and  from  these  writers  respectively  he  received  let- 
ters of  comment.  I  am  unable  to  remember  what  was 
the  occasion  of  the  first  of  the  E.  L.  Stevenson  notes, 
what  nature  of  request  it  was  that  annoyed  the  older 
writer.  Neither  of  his  letters  is  dated,  but  from  the 
context  each  obviously  belongs  to  1888. 

Deae  Me.  Shakp, 

Yes,  I  was  annoyed  with  you,  but  let  us  bury  that ;  you 
have  shown  so  much  good  nature  under  my  refusal  that  I 
have  blotted  out  the  record. 

And  to  show  I  have  repented  of  my  wrath :  is  your  arti- 
cle written?  If  not,  you  might  like  to  see  early  sheets  of 
my  voliune  of  verse,  not  very  good,  but  still — and  the 
Scotch  ones  would  amuse  you  I  believe.  And  you  might 
like  also  to  see  the  plays  I  have  written  with  Mr.  Henley : 
let  me  know,  and  you  shall  have  them  as  soon  as  I  can 
manage. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

The  notice  I  had  seen  already,  and  was  pleased  with. 

After  the  appearance  of  the  review  of  Undertvoods,  R. 
L.  S.  wrote  again : 

Deae  Mr.  Sharp, 

What  is  the  townsman's  blunder? — though  I  deny  I  am 
a  townsman,  for  I  have  lived,  on  the  whole,  as  much 
or  more  in  the  country :  well,  perhaps  not  so  much.  Is  it 
that  the  thrush  does  not  sing  at  night?  That  is  possible. 
I  only  know  most  potently  the  blackbird  (his  cousin) 
does:  many  and  many  a  late  evening  in  the  garden  of 
that  poem  have  I  listened  to  one  that  was  our  faithful 
visitor;  and  the  sweetest  song  I  ever  heard  was  past 
nine  at  night  in  the  early  sj^ring,  from  a  tree  near  the 


ROMANTIC   BALLADS  139 

N.  E.  gate  of  Warriston  cemetery.  That  I  called  what 
I  believe  to  have  been  a  merle  by  the  softer  name  of  mavis 
(and  they  are  all  turdi,  I  believe)  is  the  head  and  front 
of  my  offence  against  literal  severity,  and  I  am  curious 
to  hear  if  it  has  really  brought  me  into  some  serious 
error. 

Your  article  is  very  true  and  very  kindly  put :  I  have 
never  called  my  verses  poetry :  they  are  verse,  the  verse 
of  a  speaker  not  a  singer;  but  that  is  a  fair  business  like 
another.  I  am  of  your  mind  too  in  preferring  much  the 
Scotch  verses,  and  in  thinking  "  Requiem  "  the  nearest 
thing  to  poetry  that  I  have  ever  "  clerkit." 

Yours  very  truly, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

R.  L.  S.  Saranac,  New  York. 

Mr.  Henley  wrote : 

Merton  Place,  Chiswick,  W., 

5:  7:  88. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  am  glad  to  have  your  letter.  Of  course  I  disagreed 
with  your  view  of  In  Hospital;  but  I  didn't  think  it  all 
worth  writing  about.  I  felt  you'd  mistaken  my  aim ;  but 
I  felt  that  your  mistake  (as  I  conceived  it  to  be)  was  hon- 
estly made,  and  that  if  the  work  itself  had  failed  to  pro- 
duce a  right  effect  upon  you,  it  was  useless  to  attempt 
to  correct  the  impressions  by  means  outside  art. 

Art  (as  I  think)  is  treatment  et  prateria  nil.  What 
I  tried  to  do  in  In  Hospital  was  to  treat  a  certain  subject 
— which  seems  to  me  to  have  a  genuine  human  interest 
and  importance — with  discretion,  good  feeling,  and  a  cer- 
tain dignity.  If  I  failed,  I  failed  as  an  artist.  My  treat- 
ment (or  my  art)  was  not  good  enough  for  my  material. 
Voild.  I  thought  (I  will  frankly  confess  it)  that  I  had 
got  the  run  of  the  thing — that  my  results  were  touched 
with  the  distinction  of  art.  You  didn't  think  so,  and  I 
saw  that,  as  far  as  you  were  concerned,  I  had  failed  of  my 
effort.  I  was  sorry  to  have  so  failed,  and  then  the  matter 
ended.  To  be  perfectly  frank,  I  objected  to  but  one  ex- 
pression— "  occasionally  crude  " — in  all  the  article.     I 


140  WILLIAM    SHARP 

confess  I  don't  see  the  ijropriety  of  the  phrase  at  all.  My 
method  is,  I  know,  the  exact  reverse  of  your  own;  but  I 
beg  you  to  believe  that  my  efforts — of  simplicity,  direct- 
ness, bluntness,  brutality  even — are  carefully  calculated, 
and  that  "  crude  " — which  means  raw,  if  it  means  any- 
thing at  all — is  a  word  that  I'd  rather  not  have  applied 
to  me.  The  Saturday  Reviewer  made  use  of  it,  and  I  had 
it  out  with  him,  and  he  owned  that  it  was  unfortunately 
used — that  it  didn't  mean  "  raw,"  but  something  un-Mil- 
tonic  (as  it  were),  something  novel  and  personal  and 
which  hadn't  had  time  to  get  conventionalised.  It's 
stupid  and  superfluous  to  write  like  this ;  especially  as  I 
had  meant  to  say  nothing  about  it.  But  yours  of  last 
night  is  so  kind  and  pleasant  that  I  think  it  best  to  write 
what's  on  my  mind,  or  rather  what  was  on  it  when  I  read 
your  article.  For  the  rest,  it  is  good  to  hear  that  you're 
re-reading,  and  are  kind  of  dissatisfied  with  your  own 
first  views.  I  shall  look  with  great  interest  for  the  new 
statement,  and  value  it — whatever  its  conclusions — a 
good  deal.  I  have  worked  hard  at  the  little  book,  and  am 
disposed  (as  you  see)  to  take  it  more  seriously  than  it 
deserves;  and  whatever  is  said  about  it  comes  home 
to  me. 

Always  yours  sincerely, 

W.  E.  H. 

P.  ;S'. — I  am  glad  you  quoted  "  The  King  of  Babylon." 
It's  my  own  favourite  of  all.  I  call  it  "  a  romance  without 
adjectives  "  and  the  phrase  (which  represents  an  ideal) 
says  everything.  I  wish  I  could  do  more  of  the  same 
reach  and  tune. 

At  Wescam  we  enjoyed  once  more  the  pleasant  ways 
of  friendship  that  had  grown  about  us,  and  especially  our 
Sunday  informal  evening  gatherings  to  which  came  all 
those  with  whom  we  were  in  sympathy.  Among  the  most 
frequent  were  Mrs.  Mona  Caird,  the  eager  champion  of 
women  long  before  the  movement  passed  into  the  militant 
hands  of  the  suffragettes ;  Walter  Pater,  during  his  Ox- 
ford vacation ;  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Garnett ;  John  M.  Robertson, 


ROMANTIC    BALLADS  141 

who  was  living  the  "  simple  life  "  of  a  socialist  in  rooms 
close  by ;  Richard  Whiteing,  then  leader-writing  for  The 
Daily  News,  and  author  of  the  beautiful  idyll  The  Island. 
Mathilde  Blind — poetess  novelist,  who  in  youth  had 
sat  an  eager  disciple  at  the  feet  of  Mazzini,  came  fre- 
quently, Ernest  Rhys  was  writing  poems  and  editing 
The  Camelot  Classics  from  the  heights  of  Hampstead, 
and  his  wife,  then  Miss  Grace  Little,  lived  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood with  her  sisters,  the  eldest  of  whom,  Lizzie  Lit- 
tle, was  a  writer  of  charming  verse.  W.  B.  Yeats  came  in 
the  intervals  of  wandering  over  Ireland  in  search  of  Folk 
tales;  John  Davidson  had  recently  come  to  London,  and 
was  bitter  over  the  hard  struggle  he  was  enduring;  Wil- 
liam Watson  was  a  rare  visitor.  Another  frequent  vis- 
itor was  Arthur  Tomson  the  landscape  painter,  who  came 
to  us  with  an  introduction  from  Mr.  Andrew  Lang.  A 
warm  friendship  grew  up  between  Arthur  and  ourselves, 
which  was  deepened  by  his  second  marriage  with  Miss 
Agnes  Hastings,  a  girl-friend  of  ours,  and  lasted  till  his 
death  in  1905.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  M.  Swan  came  occa- 
sionally, Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Strang,  we  saw  fre- 
quently, and  Theodore  Roussell  was  an  ever  welcome 
guest.  Sir  George  Douglas  came  now  and  again  from 
Kelso;  Charles  Mavor,  editor  of  The  Art  Review,  ran 
down  occasionally  from  Glasgow.  Other  frequenters  of 
our  Sunday  evenings  were  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  whose 
Book  hills  of  Narcissus  was  then  recently  published; 
Miss  Alice  Corkran,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Todhunter,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gilbert  Coleridge,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Rinder,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Joseph  Pennell.  The  Russian  Nihilist  Stepniak 
and  his  wife  were  a  great  interest  to  us.  I  remember  on 
one  occasion  they  told  us  that  Stepniak  intended  to  make 
a  secret  visit  to  Russia — as  he  had  done  before — that  he 
was  starting  the  next  morning,  and  though  every  care 
would  be  taken  in  matter  of  disguise,  the  risks  were  so 
great  that  he  and  his  wife  always  said  farewell  to  one 
another  as  though  they  never  would  meet  again. 

Mrs.  Caird's  town  house  was  close  to  us;  and  she, 
keenly  interested — as  my  husband  and  I  also  were — in 


142  WILLIAM    SHARP 

the  subject  of  the  legal  position  of  women,  had  that  spring 
written  two  articles  on  the  Marriage  question  which  were 
accepted  by  and  published  in  The  Westminster  Revieiv  in 
July.  Twelve  years  ago  the  possibilities  of  a  general  dis- 
cussion on  such  subjects  were  very  different  to  what  exist 
now.  The  sensibilities  of  both  men  and  women — espe- 
cially of  those  who  had  no  adequate  knowledge  of  the 
legal  inequalities  of  the  Marriage  laws  nor  of  the  abuses 
which  were  and  are  in  some  cases  still  the  direct  out- 
come of  them — were  disturbed  and  shocked  by  the  plain 
statements  put  forward,  by  the  passionate  plea  for  jus- 
tice, for  freedom  from  tyrannous  legal  oppression,  exer- 
cised consciously  and  unconsciously.  Mrs.  Caird's  arti- 
cles met  with  acute  hostility  of  a  kind  difficult  to  under- 
stand now,  and  much  misunderstanding  and  unmerited 
abuse  was  meted  out  to  her.  Nevertheless  these  brave 
articles,  published  in  book  form  under  the  title  of  The 
Morality  of  Marriage,  and  the  novels  written  by  the  same 
pen,  have  been  potent  in  altering  the  attitude  of  the  pub- 
lic mind  in  its  approach  to  and  examination  of  such  ques- 
tions, in  making  private  discussion  possible. 

In  the  autumn  of  1888  the  monograph  on  Heine  was 
published  in  the  Great  Writers  Series  (Walter  Scott) ; 
and  the  author  always  regarded  it  as  the  best  piece  of 
work  of  the  kind  he  ever  did.  It  seemed  fitting  that  the 
writer  of  a  life  of  Shelley  should  write  one  of  Heine,  for 
there  is  a  kinship  between  the  two  poets.  To  their  bi- 
ographer Heine  was  the  strangest  and  most  fascinating 
of  all  the  poets  not  only  of  one  country  and  one  century, 
but  of  all  time  and  of  all  nations ;  he  saw  in  the  wayward 
brilliant  poet  "  one  of  those  flowers  which  bloom  more 
rarely  than  the  aloe — human  flowers  which  unfold  their 
petals  but  once,  it  may  be,  in  the  whole  slow  growth  of 
humanity.  ...  At  his  best  Heine  is  a  creature  of  con- 
trolled impulse;  at  his  worst  he  is  a  creature  of  impulse 
uncontrolled.  Through  extremes  he  gained  the  golden 
mean  of  art ;  here  is  his  apologia." 

The  book  is  an  endeavour  to  handle  the  subject  in  an 
impartial  spirit,  to  tell  the  story  vividly,  to  give  a  definite 


EOMANTIC    BALLADS  143 

impression  of  the  strange  personality,  and  in  the  conclud- 
ing pages  to  summarise  Heine's  genius.  But,  "  do  what 
we  will  we  cannot  affiliate,  we  cannot  classify  Heine. 
When  we  would  apprehend  it  his  genius  is  as  volatile  as 
his  wit.  ...  Of  one  thing  only  can  we  be  sure:  that  he 
is  of  our  time,  of  our  century.  He  is  so  absolutely  and 
essentially  modern  that  he  is  often  antique.  .  .  . 

"  As  for  his  song-motive,  I  should  say  it  was  primarily 
his  Lehenslust,  his  delight  in  life:  that  love  so  intensely 
human  that  it  almost  necessarily  involved  the  ignoring 
of  the  divine.  Rainbow-hued  as  is  his  genius,  he  himself 
was  a  creature  of  earth.  It  was  enough  to  live.  .  .  .  He 
would  cling  to  life,  even  though  it  were  by  a  rotten  beam, 
he  declared  once  in  his  extremity.  And  the  poet  of  life 
he  unquestionably  is.  There  is  a  pulse  in  everything  he 
writes:  his  is  no  galvanised  existence.  No  parlour  pas- 
sions lead  him  into  the  quicksands  of  oblivion.  .  .  ." 

The  author  was  gratified  by  appreciative  letters  from 
Dr.  Richard  Garnett  and  Mr.  George  Meredith : 

3  St.  Edmund's  Terrace, 

My  dear  Sharp,  Nov.  ii,  1888. 

I  have  now  finished  your  Heine,  and  can  congratulate 
you  upon  an  excellent  piece  of  biographical  work.  You 
are  throughout  perfectly  clear  and  highly  interesting, 
and,  what  is  more  difficult  with  your  subject,  accurate  and 
impartial.  Or,  if  there  is  any  partiality  it  is  such  as  it  is 
becoming  in  one  poet  to  enlist  aid  for  another.  With  all 
one's  worship  of  Heine's  genius,  it  must  be  allowed  that 
he  requires  a  great  deal  of  toleration.  The  best  excuse 
to  be  made  for  him  is  that  his  faults  were  largely  faults 
of  race — and  just  now  I  feel  amiably  toward  the  Jews, 
for  if  you  have  seen  the  Athenaeum  you  will  have  ob- 
served that  I  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  Philistines. 
Almost  the  only  point  in  which  I  differ  from  you  is  as 
regards  your  too  slight  mention  of  Platen,  who  seems  to 
me  not  only  a  master  of  form  but  a  true  though  limited 
poet — a  sort  of  German  Matthew  Arnold.  Your  kind  no- 
tice of  my  translation  from  the  Romanzen  did  not  escape 


144  WILLIAM   SHARP 

me.    Something,  perhaps,  should  have  been  said  of  James 
Thomson,  the  best  English  translator. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sharp, 

Most  sincerely  yours, 

R.  Garnett. 

Box  Hill,  Dec.  10,  1888. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

Your  Heine  gave  me  pleasure.  I  think  it  competently 
done;  and  coming  as  a  corrective  to  Stigund's  work,  it 
brings  the  refreshment  of  the  antidote.  When  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  we  will  converse  upon  Heine.  Too 
much  of  his — almost  all  of  the  Love  poems  drew  both 
tenderness  and  tragic  emotion  from  a  form  of  sensualism, 
much  of  his  wit  too  was  wilful — a  trick  of  the  mind.  Al- 
ways beware  of  the  devilish  in  wit:  it  has  the  obverse 
of  an  intellectual  meaning,  and  it  shows  at  the  best  inter- 
pretation, a  smallness  of  range.  Macmillan  says  that  if 
they  can  bring  out  my  book  "  Reading  of  Earth  "  on  the 
18th  I  may  expect  it.  Otherwise  you  will  not  receive  a 
copy  until  after  Christmas. 

Faithfully  yours, 
George  Meredith. 

Mr.  Meredith  wrote  again  after  the  publication  of  his 
poems : 

Box  Hill,  Feb.  15,  1888. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

It  is  not  common  for  me  to  be  treated  in  a  review 
with  so  much  respect.  But  your  competency  to  speak 
on  the  art  of  verse  gives  the  juster  critical  tone. 

Of  course  you  have  poor  J.  Thomson's  book.  I  have 
had  pain  in  reading  it.  Nature  needs  her  resources,  con- 
sidering what  is  wasted  of  her  finest.  That  is  to  say,  on 
this  field — and  for  the  moment  I  have  eyes  on  the  narrow 
rather  than  the  wider.  It  is  our  heart  does  us  this  mis- 
chief. Philosophy  can  as  little  subject  it  as  the  Laws  of 
men  can  hunt  Nature  out  of  women — artificial  though  we 
force  them  to  be  in  their  faces.     But  if  I  did  not  set 


ROMANTIC    BALLADS  145 

Philosophy  on  high  for  worship,  I  should  be  one  of  the 
"weakest. 

Let  me  know  when  you  are  back.  If  in  this  opening  of 
the  year  we  have  the  South  West,  our  country,  even  our 
cottage,  may  be  agreeable  to  you.  All  here  will  be  glad 
to  welcome  you  and  your  wife  for  some  days. 

Yours  very  cordially, 

Geobge  Meredith. 

It  was  the  late  spring  before  we  could  visit  Mr.  Mere- 
dith. The  day  of  our  going  was  doubly  memorable  to  me, 
because  as  we  went  along  the  leafy  road  from  Burford 
Bridge  station  we  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grant  Allen — my 
first  meeting  with  them — whose  home  was  at  that  time 
in  Dorking.  Memorable,  too,  was  the  courteous  genial 
greeting  from  our  host  and  his  charming  daughter;  and 
the  many  delightful  incidents  of  that  first  week  end  visit. 
William  and  Mr.  Meredith  had  long  talks  in  the  garden 
chalet  on  the  edge  of  the  wood.  And  in  the  evenings  the 
novelist  read  aloud  to  us.  On  that  occasion  I  think  it  was 
he  read  some  chapters  from  "  One  of  our  Conquerors  "  on 
which  he  was  working ;  another  time  it  was  from  "  The 
Amazing  Marriage  "  and  from  "  Lord  Ormont  and  his 
Aminta."  The  reader's  enjoyment  seemed  as  great  as 
that  of  his  audience,  and  it  interested  me  to  hear  how 
closely  his  own  methods  of  conversation  resembled,  in 
wittiness  and  brilliance,  those  of  the  characters  in  his 
novels.  Sometimes  he  turned  a  merciless  play  of  wit  on 
his  listener ;  but  my  husband,  who  was  as  deeply  attached 
to  the  man  as  he  admired  the  writer,  enjoyed  these  verbal 
duels  in  which  he  was  usually  worsted.  The  incident  of 
the  visit  that  charmed  me  most  arose  from  my  stating 
that  I  had  never  heard  the  nightingale.  So  on  the  Sun- 
day afternoon  we  were  taken  to  a  stretch  of  woodland, 
"  my  woods  of  Westermain  "  the  poet  smilingly  declared, 
and  there,  standing  among  the  .tree-boles  in  the  late 
afternoon  sun-glow  I  listened  for  the  bird-notes  as  he 
described  them  to  me  until  he  was  satisfied  I  heard  aright. 

The  Xmas  of  1888,  and  the  following  New  Year's  day 


146  WILLIAM    SHARP 

we  passed  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  witli  Mathilde  Blind,  in 
rooms  overlooking  the  common.  Many  delightful  hours 
were  spent  together  in  the  evenings  listening  to  one  or 
other  of  the  two  poets  reading  aloud  their  verse,  or  parts 
of  the  novels  they  had  in  process.  Mathilde  was  writing 
her  Tarantella;  my  husband  had  recently  finished  a  boys' 
serial  story  for  Young  Folk's  Paper,  with  a  highly  sen- 
sational plot  entitled  "  The  Secret  of  Seven  Fountains," 
and  was  at  work  on  a  Romance  of  a  very  different  order 
in  which  he  then  was  deeply  interested,  though  in  later 
life  he  considered  it  immature  in  thought  and  expression. 
The  boys'  story  was  one  of  adventure,  of  life  seen  from 
a  purely  objective  point  of  view.  The  Children  of  To-mor- 
row was  the  author's  first  endeavour  to  give  expression 
in  prose  to  the  more  subjective  side  of  his  nature,  to 
thoughts,  feelings,  aspirations  he  had  hitherto  sup- 
pressed; it  is  the  direct  forerunner  of  the  series  of  ro- 
mantic tales  he  afterward  wrote  as  Fiona  Macleod;  it 
was  also  the  expression  of  his  attitude  of  revolt  against 
the  limitations  of  the  accepted  social  system.  The  writ- 
ing of  the  Monograph  on  Shelley  had  rekindled  many 
ideas  and  beliefs  he  held  in  common  with  the  earlier 
poet — ideas  concerning  love  and  marriage,  viewed  not 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  accepted  practical  standard  of 
morality,  nor  of  the  possible  realisation  by  the  average 
humanity  of  a  more  complex  code  of  social  morality, 
but  viewed  from  the  standpoint  held  by  a  minority  of 
dreamers  and  thinkers  who  look  beyond  the  present 
strictly  guarded,  fettered  conditions  of  married  life,  to 
a  time,  when  man  and  woman,  equally,  shall  know  that 
to  stultify  or  slay  the  spiritual  inner  life  of  another 
human  being,  through  the  radical  misunderstanding  be- 
tween alien  temperaments  inevitably  tied  to  one  another, 
is  one  of  the  greatest  crimes  against  humanity.  That 
the  author  knew  how  visionary  for  the  immediate  future 
were  these  ideas,  which  we  at  that  time  so  eagerly  dis- 
cussed with  a  little  group  of  intimate  sympathetic  friends, 
is  shown  by  the  prefatory  lines  in  the  book : 


ROMANTIC    BALLADS  147 

"  Forlorn  the  way,  yet  with  strange  gleams  of  gladness ; 
Sad  beyond  words  the  voices  far  behind. 
Yet  we,  perplext  with  our  diviner  madness, 

Must  heed  them  not — the  goal  is  still  to  find! 
What  though  beset  by  pain  and  fear  and  sorrow, 
We  must  not  fail,  we  Children  of  To-morrow." 

The  Children  of  To-morrow  called  forth  all  manner  of 
divergent  opinions.  It  was  called  depressing*  by  one 
critic,  and  out  of  touch  with  realities.  Another  consid- 
ered the  chief  interest  of  the  book  to  consist  "  in  what 
may  be  called  its  aims.  It  is  clearly  an  attempt  toward 
greater  truth  in  art  and  life."  All  agreed  as  to  the  power 
displayed  in  the  descriptions  of  nature.  The  critic  in 
Public  Opinion  showed  discernment  as  to  the  author's  in- 
tentions when  he  wrote  "  To  our  mind  the  delightful 
irresponsibility  of  this  book,  the  calm  determination 
which  it  displays  that  now,  at  least,  the  author  means  to 
please  himself,  to  give  vent  to  many  a  pent  up  feeling 
or  opinion  constitutes  one  of  its  greatest  charms.  This 
waywardness,  the  waywardness  of  a  true  artist,  is  shown 
on  almost  every  page.  .  .  .  Mr.  Sharp  states  his  case 
with  wonderful  power  and  lucidity;  he  draws  no  conclu- 
sions— as  an  artist  they  do  not  concern  him — he  leaves 
the  decision  to  the  individual  temperament." 

Mathilde  Blind  wrote  to  the  author : 

1  St.  Edmund's  Tehrace,  N.  W.,  1889. 

Dear  Child  of  the  Future, 

You  have  indeed  written  a  strange,  weird,  romantic  tale 
with  the  sound  of  the  sea  running  through  it  like  an 
accompaniment.  Adama  Acosta  is  a  specially  well-imag- 
ined and  truthful  character  of  a  high  kind ;  and  the  inter- 
mittent wanderings  of  his  brain  have  something  akin  to 
the  wailing  notes  of  the  instrument  of  which  he  is  such 
a  master.  But  it  is  in  your  conception  of  love — the  subtle, 
delicate,  ideal  attraction  of  two  beings  inevitably  drawn 
to  each  other  by  the  finest  elements  of  their  being — that 
the  charm  of  the  story  consists  to  my  mind ;  on  the  other 
hand,  you  have  succeeded  in  drawing  a  very  realistic  and 


148  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

vivid  picture  of  the  hard  and  handsome  Lydia,  with  her 
purely  negative  individuality,  and  in  showing  the  deadly 
effect  which  one  person  may  exercise  over  another  in 
married  life — without  positive  outward  wrongdoing 
which  might  lead  to  the  divorce  court.  I  agree  with  you 
in  thinking  that  the  end  is  the  finest  part  of  the  Romance, 
especially  the  last  scene  where  Dane  and  Sanpriel  are  in 
the  wood  under  the  old  oak  tree,  where  the  voice  of  the 
rising  storm  with  its  ominous  note  of  destiny  is  magnifi- 
cently described.  Such  a  passing  away  in  the  mid-most 
fire  of  passion  on  the  wings  of  the  elements  has  always 
seemed  to  me  the  climax  of  human  happiness.  But  I  fear 
the  book  is  likely  to  rouse  a  good  deal  of  opposition  in 
many  quarters  for  the  daring  disregard  of  the  binding 
sanctity  of  the  marriage  relation.  If  I  may  speak  quite 
openly  and  as  a  friend  who  would  wish  you  to  do  your- 
self full  justice  and  produce  the  best  work  that  is  in  you, 
I  wish  you  had  given  yourself  more  time  to  work  out 
some  of  the  situations  which  seem,  to  me  at  least,  to  lack 
a  certain  degree  of  precision  and  consistency.  Thus,  for 
example,  Dane  after  discovering  that  Ford  has  been  try- 
ing to  murder  him,  and  is  making  secret  love  to  his  wife, 
rushes  off  to  the  painter's  studio  evidently  bent  on  some 
sort  of  quarrel  or  revenge,  yet  nothing  comes  of  it,  and 
afterwards  we  find  the  would-be  murderer  on  outwardly 
friendly  terms  with  the  sculptor  on  board  the  house  boat. 
I  must  tell  you  by  the  way  how  powerful  I  think  the  scene 
of  the  dying  horse  in  Eatho  Sands  and  the  murder  of 
Lydia.  I  should  also  have  liked  to  have  heard  a  little 
more  of  the  real  aims  and  objects  of  "  The  Children  of 
the  Future  "  and  would  like  to  know  whether  such  an  asso- 
ciation really  exists  among  any  section  of  the  modem 
Jews;  we  must  talk  of  that  this  evening  or  some  other 
time  when  we  meet.  I  hope  to  look  in  to-night  with  Sarra- 
zin  and  Bunand  who  are  coming  to  a  little  repast  here 
first.  Madox  Brown  has  been  reading  your  book  with 
the  greatest  interest. 

Yours  ever, 

Mathilde  Blind. 


CHAPTER    IX 

FIRST    VISIT    TO    AMERICA 

In  the  Spring  of  1889  the  Chair  of  Literature  at  Uni- 
versity College,  London,  became  vacant  on  the  death  of 
Professor  Henry  Morley;  and  many  of  William  Sharp's 
friends  urged  him  to  stand  for  election.  He  was  of  two 
minds  on  the  subject.  His  inclinations  were  against 
work  of  the  kind,  for,  temperamentally,  he  had  difficulty 
in  regulating  his  life  in  accordance  with  strict  routine. 
Born,  as  he  would  say,  with  the  wandering  wave  in  his 
blood,  the  fixed  and  the  inevitable  were  antipathetic  to 
him.  He  was,  however,  awake  to  the  material  importance 
of  such  a  post,  to  the  advantages  of  a  steady  income. 
Had  he  had  himself  only  to  consider  he  would  not  have 
given  the  proposal  a  thought ;  but  he  believed  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  attempt  to  secure  the  post  for  his  wife's  sake, 
though  she  was  not  of  that  opinion.  Among  the  many 
friends  who  advocated  his  election  were  Robert  Brown- 
ing, George  Meredith,  Walter  Pater,  Theodore  Watts 
Dunton,  Alfred  Austin,  Dr.  Richard  Garnett,  Prof.  Minto, 
Hall  Caine,  Sir  George  Douglas,  Aubrey  De  Vere,  Mrs. 
Augusta  Webster.  When,  however,  the  date  of  election 
drew  near,  he  consulted  his  doctor  and  withdrew  his  can- 
didature. The  question,  to  him,  had  all  along  been  one  of 
security  of  means  versus  freedom  of  action ;  and  having 
done  his  duty  in  the  matter,  his  relief  was  great  that  the 
decision  left  him  in  possession  of  his  freedom. 

For  some  time  William  Sharp  had  contemplated  a  visit 
to  the  United  States,  where  he  was  well  known  as  poet 
and  critic,  and  had  many  friendly  correspondents.  So 
he  considered  the  moment  to  be  opportune.  He  decided 
to  go ;  although  he  was  forbidden  to  lecture  in  America, 
and  very  opportunely  our  friend  Mrs.  Caird  asked  me  to 

149 


150  WILLIAM    SHARP 

accompany  her  to  Austria — to  the  Sun-cure  at  Veldes  in 
the  Carpathian  Alps.  She  and  I  were  the  first  to  leave, 
and  eventually,  my  husband  after  his  return  from  Amer- 
ica joined  me  at  Cologne  and  accompanied  me  home. 

Meanwhile  he  made  his  preparations  for  a  visit  to  Can- 
ada and  New  York,  and  just  before  starting  paid  a  flying 
visit  to  Mr.  George  Meredith  who  had  written  to  him : 

Box  Hill,  July  15,  1889. 

Deak  Mk.  Sharp, 

This  would  have  been  headed  to  your  wife,  but  for  the 
chances  of  her  flying,  and  the  letter  after  her.  Tell  her 
we  are  grieved  to  lose  the  pleasure  her  company  would 
give,  and  trust  to  welcome  her  on  her  return.  ^Vhen  she 
looks  on  Tyrol,  let  her  strain  an  eye  to  see  my  heart  on 
the  topmost  peak.  We  hope  for  your  coming  on  Satur- 
day. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Geoege  Meredith. 

He  looked  forward  to  his  American  tour  with  keen  de- 
light. New  experiences  were  ever  alluring;  he  had  the 
power  of  throwing  himself  heart  and  soul  into  every 
fresh  enjoyment.  Going  by  himself  seemed  to  promise 
chances  of  complete  recovery  of  health;  the  unexplored 
and  the  unknown  beckoned  to  him  with  promise  of  excite- 
ment and  adventure. 

As  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Stedman :  "  I  am  a  student  of  much 
else  besides  literature.  Life  in  all  its  manifestations  is 
of  passionate  interest  for  me,  and  I  cannot  rest  from 
incessant  study  and  writing.  Yet  I  feel  that  I  am  but  on 
the  threshold  of  my  literary  life.  I  have  a  life-time  of 
ambitious  schemes  before  me ;  I  may  perhaps  live  to  fulfil 
a  tenth  part  of  them." 

Mid-August  found  him  in  Canada.  Fine  as  he  consid- 
ered the  approach  to  Nova  Scotia,  Newfoundland  im- 
pressed him  more.  At  Halifax  he  was  the  guest  of  the 
Attorney  General.    He  wrote  to  me  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Long- 


FIRST   VISIT    TO    AMERICA  151 

ley  were  most  kind,  and  so  were  all  tlie  many  leading 
people  to  whom  I  was  introduced.  I  was  taken  to 
the  annual  match  of  the  Quoit  Club,  and  was  asked  to 
present  the  Cup  to  the  winner  at  the  close,  with  a  few 
words  if  I  felt  disposed,  Parth"  from  being  so  taken 
aback,  partly  from  pleased  excitement,  and  partly  from 
despair,  I  lost  all  nervousness  and  made  a  short  and 
(what  I  find  was  considered)  humourous  speech,  so  slowly 
and  coolly  spoken  that  I  greatly  admired  it  myself !  " 

At  Halifax,  which  he  considered  "  worth  a  dozen  of  the 
Newfoundland  capital,"  he  was  met  by  Professor  Charles 
Roberts  who  had  come  "  to  intercept  me  so  as  to  go  off 
with  him  for  a  few  days  in  Northern  Scotia  and  across 
the  Straits  to  Prince  Edward  Island.  So,  a  few  days 
later  Prof.  Roberts  and  I,  accompanied  for  the  first  100 
miles  by  Mr.  Longley,  started  for  Pictou,  which  we 
reached  after  5  hours  most  interesting  journey.  The  At- 
torney General  has  kindly  asked  me  to  go  a  three  days' 
trip  with  him  (some  10  days  hence)  through  the  famous 
Cape  Breton  district,  with  the  lovely  Bras  D'Or  lakes: 
and  later  on  he  has  arranged  for  a  three  days'  moose- 
hunt  among  the  forests  of  Southern  Acadia,  where  we 
shall  camp  out  in  tents,  and  be  rowed  by  Indian  guides." 

New  Glasgow  delighted  him;  he  visited  Windsor  and 
Halifax :  "  I  went  with  Charles  Roberts  and  Bliss  Carman 
through  Evangeline's  country.  En  route  I  travelled  on 
the  engine  of  the  train  and  enjoyed  the  experience.  Grand 
Pre  delighted  me  immensely — vast  meadows,  with  lum- 
bering wains  and  the  simple  old  Acadian  life.  The 
orchards  were  in  their  glory — and  the  apples  delicious! 
At  one  farm  house  we  put  up,  how  you  would  have  en- 
joyed our  lunch  of  sweet  milk  hot  cakes,  great  bowls  of 
huckleberries  and  cream,  tea,  apples,  etc. !  We  then  went 
through  the  forest  belt  and  came  upon  the  great  ocean 
inlet  known  as  the  "  basin  of  Minas,"  and,  leagues  away 
the  vast  bulk  of  Blomidon  shelving  bough-like  into  the 
Sea.  .  .  ." 


152  WILLIAM   SHARP 

To  E.  A.  S. : 

(On  the  St.  Lawrence), 

12th  Sept. 

To-day  has  been  a  momentous  birthday  on  the  whole — 
and  none  the  less  so  because  I  have  been  alone  and,  what 
is  to  me  an  infinite  relief,  quite  unknown.  I  told  no  one 
about  my  Saguenay  expedition  till  the  last  moment — and 
so  there  is  nothing  definite  about  me  in  the  papers  save 
that  I  "  abruptly  left  St.  John  "  (the  capital  of  New 
Brunswick)  and  that  I  am  to  arrive  in  Quebec  to-mor- 
row. I  sent  you  a  card  from  Riviere  du  Loup,  the  north- 
ernmost township  of  the  old  Acadians,  and  a  delightful 
place.  I  reached  it  early  from  Temiscouata  (the  Lake  of 
Winding  Water) — a  journey  of  extreme  interest  and 
beauty,  through  a  wild  and  as  yet  unsettled  country.  The 
track  has  only  been  open  this  summer.  Before  I  reached 
its  other  end  (the  junction  of  the  St.  John  river  with  the 
Madawaska)  I  was  heartily  sick  of  New  Brunswick,  with 
its  oven-like  heat,  its  vast  monotonous  forests  with 
leagues  upon  leagues  of  dead  and  dying  trees,  and  its  all 
present  forest-fires.  The  latter  have  caused  widespread 
disaster.  .  .  .  Several  times  we  were  scorched  by  the 
flames,  but  a  few  yards  away — and  had  "  to  rush  "  sev- 
eral places.  But  once  in  the  province  of  Quebec,  and 
everything  changed.  The  fires  (save  small  desultory 
ones)  disappeared:  the  pall  of  smoke  lightened  and  van- 
ished :  and  the  glorious  September  foliage  made  a  happy 
contrast  to  the  wearisome  hundreds  of  miles  of  decayed 
and  decaying  firs.  It  was  a  most  glorious  sunset — one 
of  the  grandest  I  have  ever  seen — and  the  colour  of  the 
vast  Laurentian  Mountain  range,  on  the  north  side  of  the 
St.  Lawrence,  superb.  It  was  dark  when  we  reached  the 
mouth  of  the  Saguenay  River — said  to  be  the  gloomiest 
and  most  awe-inspiring  river  in  the  world — and  began 
our  sail  of  close  upon  a  hundred  miles  (it  can  be  followed 
by  canoes  for  a  greater  length  than  Great  Britain).  The 
full  moon  came  up,  and  the  scene  was  grand  and  solemn 
beyond  words.  Fancy  fifty  miles  of  sheer  mountains, 
one  after  another  without  a  valley-break,  but  simply  cleft 


FIRST   VISIT    TO   AMERICA  153 

ravines.  The  deep  gloom  as  we  slowly  sailed  tlirough  the 
noiseless  shadow  brooding  between  Cape  Eternity  and 
Cape  Trinity  was  indescribable.  We  anchored  for  some 
hours  in  "  Ha !  Ha !  Bay,"  the  famous  landing  place  of 
the  old  discoverers.  In  the  early  morning  we  sailed  out 
from  Ha !  Ha !  Bay,  and  then  for  hours  sailed  down  such 
scenery  as  I  have  never  seen  before  and  never  expect  to 
see  again.  ...  At  Quebec  I  am  first  to  be  the  guest  of 
the  well-known  Dr.  Stewart,  and  then  of  Mons.  Le  Moine 
at  his  beautiful  place  out  near  the  Indian  Village  of 
Lorette  and  the  Falls  of  Montmorenci — not  far  from  the 
famous  Plain  of  Abraham,  where  Wolfe  and  Montcalm 
fought,  and  an  Empire  lay  in  balance. 

In  New  York,  William  was  the  guest  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
E.  C.  Stedman  at  44  East  26th  Street,  whence  he  wrote 
to  me: 

"...  So  much  has  happened  since  I  wrote  to  you  from 
Montreal  that  I  don't  see  how  I'm  to  tell  you  more  than 
a  fraction  of  it — particularly  as  I  am  seldom  alone  even 
for  five  minutes.  Last  week  I  left  Montreal  (after  having 
shot  the  rapids,  etc.)  and  travelled  to  Boston  via  the 
White  Mountains,  through  the  States  of  Vermont,  Con- 
necticut and  Massachusetts.  Boston  is  a  beautiful  place 
— an  exceedingly  fine  city  with  lovely  environs.  Prof.  A. 
S.  Hardy  ('Passe  Rose,'  etc.)  was  most  kind.  .  .  .  Cam- 
bridge and  Harvard  University,  are  also  very  fine.  I 
enjoyed  seeing  Longfellow's  house  (Miss  L.  still  occupies 
it)  and  those  of  Emerson,  Lowell,  etc.  I  spent  brief 
visits  to  Prof.  Wright  of  Harvard,  to  Winsor  the  his- 
torian, etc.  On  Sunday  afternoon  I  drove  with  A.  S.  H. 
to  Belmont  in  Massachusetts,  and  spent  afternoon  with 
Howells,  the  novelist.  He  was  most  interesting  and  gen- 
ial— I  had  the  best  of  welcomes  from  the  Stedmans.  They 
are  kindness  personified.  The  house  is  lovely,  and  full  of 
beautiful  things  and  multitudes  of  books.  I  have  already 
more  invitations  than  I  can  accept:  every  one  is  most 
hospitable.  I  have  already  met  Mr.  Gilder,  the  poet,  and 
editor  of  the  '  Century  ' ;  Mr.  Alden  of  ^  Harpers  ' ;  Mr, 


154  WILLIAM   SHARP 

Bowen,  of  the  '  Independent ' ;  R.  H.  Stoddart,  the 
'  father '  of  recent  American  letters ;  and  heaven  knows 
how  many  others.  I  have  been  elected  honorary  member 
of  the  two  most  exclusive  clubs  in  N.  Y.,  the  '  Century ' 
and  '  The  Players.'  Next  week  there  is  to  be  a  special 
meeting  at  the  Author's  Club,  and  I  am  to  be  the  guest  of 
the  evening.  ..." 

New  York,  1:  10:  89. 

"  Can  only  send  you  a  brief  line  by  this  mail.  I  enjoyed 
my  visit  to  Mr.  Alden  at  Metuchen  in  New  Jersey  very 
much.  Among  the  new  friends  I  care  most  for  are  a 
married  couple  called  Janvier.  They  are  true  Bohemians 
and  most  delightful.  He  is  a  writer  and  she  an  artist  .  .  . 
and  both  have  travelled  much  in  Mexico.  We  dined  to- 
gether at  a  Cuban  Cafe  last  night.  He  gave  me  his  vol. 
of  stories  called  '  Colour  Studies  '  and  she  a  little  sketch 
of  a  Mexican  haunted  house — both  addressed  to  '  William 
Sharp.    Recuerdo  di  Amistad  y  carimo.'  " 

On  leaving  New  York  he  wrote  to  his  kind  host : 

Oct.  8,  1889. 

My  deae  Stedman, 

This,  along  with  some  flowers,  will  reach  you  on  the 
morning  of  your  birthday,  while  I  am  far  out  on  the  At- 
lantic. May  the  flowers  carry  to  your  j^oet-soul  a  breath 
of  that  happy  life  which  seems  to  inspire  them — and  may 
your  coming  years  be  full  of  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of 
which  they  are  the  familiar  and  exquisite  symbols.  You 
have  won  my  love  as  well  as  my  deep  regard  and  admira- 
tion. And  so  I  leave  you  to  understand  how  earnestly 
and  truly  I  wish  you  all  good. 

Once  more  let  me  tell  you  how  deeply  grateful  I  am  to 
you  and  Mrs.  Stedman  for  all  your  generous  kindness  to 
me.  We  have  all,  somewhere,  sometime,  our  gardens, 
where — as  Hafiz  says — the  roses  have  a  subtler  fra- 
grance, and  the  nightingales  a  rarer  melody;  and  my 
memory  of  my  last  "  fortunate  Eden  "  will  remain  with 
me  always.  .  .  . 


FIRST   VISIT    TO   AMERICA  155 

I  shall  always  think  of  you,  and  Mrs.  Stedman,  and 

Arthur,  as  of  near  and  dear  relatives.    Yes,  we  are  of 

one  family. 

Farewell,  meanwhile, 

Ever  your  affectionate, 

William  Sharp. 

This  note  drew  from  the  American  poet  the  following 
reply : 

My  deab  Sharp, 

'Tis  quite  surprising — the  severity  wherewith  you 
have  been  missed,  in  this  now  very  quiet  household,  since 
you  looked  down  upon  its  members  from  the  Servia's 
upper-deck,  very  much  like  Campanini  in  Lohengrin 
when  the  Swan  gets  fairly  under  way!  The  quiet  that 
settled  down  was  all  the  stiller,  because  you  and  we  had 
to  get  through  with  so  much  in  your  ten  days  chez  nous. 
Lay  one  consolation  to  heart:  you  won't  have  to  do  this 
again;  when  you  return,  'twill  be  to  a  city  of  which  you 
have  deduced  a  general  idea,  from  the  turbid  phantasma- 
goria of  your  days  and  nights  here.  The  conclusions  on 
our  side  were  that  we  had  formed  a  liking  for  you  such 
as  we  have  retained  after  the  visits  of  very  few  guests 
from  the  Old  World  or  the  New.  Well  as  I  knew  your 
books  and  record  I  had  the  vaguest  notion  of  your  self. 
'Tis  rare  indeed  that  a  clever  writer  or  artist  strengthens 
his  hold  upon  those  who  admire  his  work,  by  personal 
intimacy.  What  can  I  say  more  than  to  say  that  we  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  your  visit;  that  we  think  immeasurably 
more  of  you  +han  before  you  came ;  that  you  are  upon  our 
list  of  friends  to  whom  w^e  are  attached  for  life — for  good 
and  ill.  We  know  our  own  class,  in  taste  and  breeding, 
when  we  find  them — which  is  not  invariably  among  our 
different  guests.  Nor  can  one  have  your  ready  art  of 
charm  and  winning,  without  a  good  heart  and  comrade- 
ship under  it  all:  even  though  intent  (and  rightly)  on 
nursing  his  career  and  making  all  the  points  he  has  a 
right  to  make —  Apropos  of  this — I  may  congratulate 
you  on  the  impression  you  made  here  on  the  men  and 


156  WILLIAM   SHARP 

women  whom  you  chanced  at  this  season  to  meet;  that 
which  you  left  with  us  passes  the  border  of  respect,  and 
into  the  warm  and  even  lowland  of  affection. 

That  is  all  I  now  shall  say  about  our  acquaintanceship. 
Being  an  Anglo-Saxon,  'tis  not  once  in  half  a  decade  that 
I  bring  myself  to  say  so  much. 

And  now,  my  dear  boy,  what  shall  I  say  of  the  charm- 
ing surprise  with  which  you  and  your  florist  so  punctually 
greeted  my  birthday?  At  56  ("  oh,  woeful  when!  ")  one 
is  less  than  ever  used  to  the  melting  mood,  but  you  drew 
a  tear  to  my  eyes.  The  roses  are  still  all  over  our  house, 
and  the  letter  is  your  best  autograph  in  my  possession. 
We  look  forward  to  seeing  you  again  with  us,  of  course — 
because,  if  for  no  other  reason,  you  and  yours  always 
have  one  home  ready  for  you  when  in  the  States,  at  least 
while  a  roof  is  over  our  heads,  even  though  the  Latin 
wolf  be  howling  at  our  door.  Mrs.  Stedman  avows  that 
I  must  give  you  her  love,  and  joins  with  me  in  all  the 
words  of  this  long  letter. 

Affectionately  your  friend, 

Edmund  C.  Stedman. 

On  our  return  to  Hampstead  we  resumed  our  Sunday 
evening  gatherings,  and  among  other  frequenters  came 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  Harland,  with  an  introduction  from 
Mr.  W.  D.  Howells.  From  Mr.  George  Meredith  came  a 
charming  welcome  home. 

Box  Hill   (Dobking), 

Nov.  22,  1889. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  am  with  all  my  heart  glad  of  your  return  and  the 
good  news  you  give  of  yourself  and  your  wife.  He  who 
travels  comes  back  thrice  the  man  he  was,  and  if  you  do 
not  bully  my  poor  Stayathoma,  it  is  in  magnanimity. 
The  moccasins  are  acceptable  for  their  uses  and  all  that 
they  tell  me.  Name  a  time  as  early  as  you  can  to  come 
and  pour  out  your  narrative.  There  is  little  to  attract, 
it's  true — a  poor  interior  and  fog  daily  outside.  We  cast 
ourselves  on  the  benevolence  of  friends.    Give  your  wife 


FIRST   VISIT   TO    AMERICA  157 

my  best  regards.    I  have  questions  for  her  about  Tyrol 
and  Carinthia. 

Hard  at  work  with  my  "  Conqueror,"  who  has  me  for 
the  first  of  his  victims. 

England  has  not  done  much  in  your  absence ;  there  will 
be  all  to  hear,  nothing  to  relate,  when  you  come. 

Yours  warmly, 

George  Meredith. 

We  went.  As  we  walked  across  the  fields  to  the  cottage 
Mr.  Meredith  came  through  his  garden  gate  to  meet  us, 
raised  high  his  hat  and  voiced  a  welcome,  "  Hail  daughter 
of  the  Sun !  " 


CHAPTER   X 

BROWNING 

The  Joseph  Severn  Memoirs 

To  William  Sharp,  as  to  many  others,  the  closing  days 
of  1899  brought  a  deep  personal  sorrow  in  the  death  of 
Robert  Browning.  The  younger  man  had  known  him  for 
several  years,  and  had  always  received  a  warm  welcome 
from  the  Poet  in  his  house  in  Warwick  Crescent  which, 
with  its  outlook  on  the  water  of  broad  angle  of  the  canal 
with  its  little  tree  clad  island,  he  declared  laughingly,  re- 
minded him  of  Venice.  And  kindly  he  was  too,  when, 
coming  to  the  first  of  our  "  At  Homes  "  in  South  Hamp- 
stead,  he  assured  me  with  a  genial  smile  "  I  like  to  come, 
because  I  know  young  people  like  to  have  me." 

"  It  is  needless  to  dwell  upon  the  grief  everywhere  felt 
and  expressed  for  the  irreparable  loss  "  (W.  S.  wrote  in 
his  monograph  on  Browning).  The  magnificent  closing 
lines  of  Shelley's  "  Alastor  "  have  occurred  to  many  a 
mourner,  for  gone  indeed  was  "  a  surpassing  Spirit."  The 
superb  pomp  of  the  Venetian  funeral,  the  solemn  gran- 
deur of  the  interment  in  Westminster  Abbey,  do  not  seem 
worth  recording :  so  insignificant  are  all  these  accidents  of 
death  made  by  the  supreme  fact  itself.  Yet  it  is  fitting 
to  know  that  Venice  has  never  in  modern  times  afforded 
a  more  impressive  sight  than  those  of  craped  proces- 
sional gondolas  following  the  high  flower-strewn  famous 
barge  through  the  thronged  water-ways  and  out  across 
the  lagoon  to  the  desolate  Isle  of  the  Dead :  that  London 
has  rarely  seen  aught  more  solemn  than  the  fog-dusked 
Cathedral  spaces,  echoing  at  first  with  the  slow  tramp  of 
the  pall-bearers,  and  then  with  the  sweet  aerial  music 
swaying  upward  the  loved  familiar  words  of  the  "  Lyric 
Voice  "  hushed  so  long  before.  Yet  the  poet  was  as  much 
honoured  by  those  humble  friends,  Lambeth  artificers  and 

158 


BKOWNING  159 

a  few  working-women,  who  threw  sprays  of  laurel  before 
the  hearse — by  that  desolate,  starving,  woe-weary  gentle- 
man, shivering  in  his  thread-bare  clothes,  who  seemed 
transfixed  with  a  heart-wrung  though  silent  emotion,  ere 
he  hurriedly  drew  from  his  sleeve  a  large  white  chrysan- 
themum, and  throwing  it  beneath  the  coffin  as  it  was 
lifted  upward,  disappeared  in  the  crowd,  which  closed 
again  like  the  sea  upon  this  lost  wandering  wave." 

But  it  was  nevertheless  difficult  to  realise  that  the  stim- 
ulating presence  had  passed  away  and  the  cheerful  voice 
was  silent :  "  It  seems  but  a  day  or  two  that  I  heard  from 
the  lips  of  the  dead  poet  a  mockery  of  death's  vanity — a 
brave  assertion  of  the  glory  of  life.  '  Death,  death !  It  is 
this  harping  on  death  I  despise  so  much,'  "  he  remarked 
with  emphases  of  gesture  as  well  as  of  speech — the  in- 
clined head  and  body,  the  right  hand  lightly  placed  upon 
the  listener's  knee,  the  abrupt  change  in  the  inflection  of 
the  voice,  all  so  characteristic  of  him — "  this  idle  and 
often  cowardly  as  well  as  ignorant  harping !  Why  should 
we  not  change  like  everything  else?  In  fiction,  in  poetry, 
in  so  much  of  both,  French  as  well  as  English,  and,  I  am 
told,  in  American  art  and  literature,  the  shadow  of  death 
— call  it  what  you  will,  despair,  negation,  indifference — is 
upon  us.  But  what  fools  who  talk  thus !  Why,  amico  niio, 
you  know  as  well  as  I  that  death  is  life,  just  as  our  daily, 
our  momentarily  dying  body  is  none  the  less  alive  and 
ever  recreating  new  forces  of  existence.  Without  death, 
which  is  our  crapelike  churchyardy  word  for  change,  for 
growth,  there  could  be  no  prolongation  of  what  we  call 
life.  Pshaw !  it  is  foolish  to  argue  upon  such  a  thing  even. 
For  myself,  I  deny  death  as  an  end  of  everything.  Never 
say  of  me  that  I  am  dead !  " 

On  the  4th  January,  1890,  W.  S.  wrote  to  Mr.  Thomas 
A.  Janvier : 

London. 

Many  thanks  for  the  Aztec  Treasure  House,  which 
opens  delightfully  and  should  prove  a  thrilling  tale.  I 
don't  know  how  you  feel,  but  for  myself  I  shall  never 
again  publish  serially  till  I  have  completed  the  story 


160  WILLIAM   SHARP 

af  orehand.  You  will  have  seen  that  I  have  been  asked  and 
have  agreed  to  write  the  critical  monograph  on  Browning 
for  the  Great  Writer's  Series.  This  involves  a  harassing 
postponement  of  other  work,  and  considerable  financial 
loss,  but  still  I  am  glad  to  do  it. 

The  Harlands  spent  New  Year's  Day  with  us,  and  the 
Champagne  was  not  finished  without  some  of  it  being 
quaffed  in  memorj^  of  the  dear  and  valued  friends  over- 
sea.   You,  both  of  you,  must  come  over  this  spring. 

Ever  yours, 

William  Sharp. 

With  each  New  Year  a  Diary  was  begun  with  the  in- 
tention of  its  being  carefully  continued  throughout  the 
months,  an  intention  however  that  inevitably  was  aban- 
doned as  the  monotony  of  the  fulfilment  palled  upon  the 
writer. 

The  Diary  for  1890  begins  with  a  careful  record  of 
work  and  events,  noted  daily  till  mid  February  when  it 
ceases,  to  be  resumed  more  fitfully  in  September  and  Oc- 
tober.   The  year  is  prefaced  with  the  motto : 

"  C'est  a  ce  lendemain  severe  que  tout  artiste  serieux 
doit  songer." — Sainte  Beuve. 

The  following  more  important  entries  tell  where  and 
how  the  monograph  was  written  and  what  other  work  he 
had  on  hand : 

"  Jan.  2nd. — Wrote  the  first  3  or  4  pages  (tentative)  of 
*  Browning ' :  or  rather  the  retrospective  survey.  Had  a 
present  of  a  fine  Proof  Etching  from  Ford  Madox  Brown 
of  his  Samson  and  Delilah  (framed)  as  '  A  New  Year's 
Card.'  Also  from  Theodore  Eoussel,  three  fine  proof 
Etchings,  also  autograph  copies  of  books  from  H.  Har- 
iand,  Mrs.  Louise  C.  Moulton,  and  '  Maxwell  Gray.'  Also 
a  copy  of  his  Balzac  from  Wedmore.  In  the  evening  there 
dined  with  us  Mrs.  E.  R.  Pennell  (Mr.  P.  unable  to  come). 
H.  Harland  and  Mrs.  Harland :  Mona  and  Caird.  Roussel 
could  not  come  till  later.    Had  a  most  delightful  evening. 


BROWNING  161 

*  The  psychic  sense  of  rhythm  is  the  fundamental  factor 
in  each  and  every  art.'  " — W.  S. 

"  Jan.  2nd. — (1)  Wrote  Chapter  of  The  Ordeal  of  Basil 
Hope.  (2)  Article  on  Haggard's  new  book  for  Young 
Folk's  Paper.  '  The  truest  literary  criticism  is  that  which 
sees  that  nowhere,  at  no  time,  in  any  conceivable  circum- 
stances is  there  any  absolute  lapse  of  intellectual  activity, 
so  long  as  the  nation  animated  thereby  is  not  in  its  death 
throes.' "— W.  S. 

"  What  exquisite  music  there  is  in  the  lines  of  Swin- 
burne's in  *  A  Swimmer's  Dream '  (in  this  month's  Neiv 
Review). ^^ 

^^Jan.  3rd. — (1)  Wrote  chapter  of  Ordeal  of  Basil 
Hope.  Finished  it  by  12.30.  Then  went  to  R.  Academy 
Press-View  and  spent  two  hours  or  so  in  the  Galleries. 
While  walking  back  to  Club  from  Charing  Cross  thought 
out  some  opening  sentences  for  Browning,  leading  to  the 
wave-theory,  beginning — '  In  human  history,  waves  of 
intellectual  activity  concur  with  other  dynamic  move- 
ments. It  used  to  be  a  formula  of  criticism,  etc'  (wrote 
down  a  couple  of  Pages  at  Club).  '  Death  is  a  variation,  a 
note  of  lower  or  higher  insistence  in  the  rhythmical  se- 
quence of  Life.'  " — W.  S. 

"  Jan.  4th. — (1)  Wrote  article  of  2,500  words  upon  Bal- 
zac (for  The  Scottish  Leader).  (2)  Short  '  London  Cor- 
respondence '  for  G.  H.  The  profoundest  insight  cannot 
reach  deeper  than  its  own  possibilities  of  depth.  The 
physiognomy  of  the  soul  is  never  visible  in  its  entirety — 
barely  ever  even  its  profile.  The  utmost  we  can  expect 
to  produce  (perhaps  even  to  perceive,  in  the  most  quin- 
tessential moment),  is  a  partially  faithful,  partially  de- 
ceptive silhouette.  Since  no  human  being  has  ever  yet 
seen  his  or  her  own  soul,  absolutely  impartially  and  in 
all  its  rounded  completeness  of  good  and  evil,  of  strength 
and  weakness,  of  what  is  temporal  and  perishable  and 
what  is  germinal  and  essential,  how  can  we  expect  even 
the  subtlest  analyst  to  depict  other  souls  than  his  own. 
Even  in  a  savage  there  must  be  dormant  possibilities, 
animal  and  spiritual  traits  of  all  kinds,  which  could  to 


162  WILLIAM    SHARP 

a  deeper  than  any  linman  vision  (as  we  can  conceive  it) 
so  colour  and  modify  an  abstract  '  replica '  as  to  make 
it  altogether  unlike  the  picture  we  should  draw." — AV.  S. 

"  Jan.  5th. — The  first  thing  the  artist  should  cultivate 
if  not  strongly  dowered  in  this  respect  by  Nature,  is  Ser- 
enity. A  true  Serenity — what  Wilfred  Meynell,  writing 
of  Browning,  in  the  AtliencBiim  of  Friday,  calls  '  detach- 
ment ' — is  one  of  the  surest  inspirers  and  preservatives 
of  that  clarified  psychic  emotion  which,  in  compelled  or 
propelled  expressional  activity,  is  the  cause  of  all  really 
creative  work.  This  true  serenity  is,  of  course,  as  far 
removed  from  a  false  isolation  of  spirit  or  a  contemptu- 
ous indifference,  as  from  constant  perturbation  about 
trifles  and  vulgar  anxiety  for  self." — W.  S. 

"  Jan.  6th. — Felt  very  unwell  this  morning.  .  .  .  Heard 
from  Dr.  Garnett  of  the  death  last  night  of  Dr.  West- 
land  Marston.  (1)  W^rote  a  portion  of  second  series 
of  '  Fragments  from  the  Lost  Journal  of  Piero  di 
Cosimo '  (one  of  a  series  of  Imaginary  portraits  I  am 
slowly  writing  for  magazine  publication  in  the  first  in- 
stance). (2)  'London  Letter'  Reminiscences  of  Dr. 
Marston,  etc.)." 

"  Jan.  10th. — Wrote  a  chapter  of  Basil  Hope.  In  even- 
ing we  went  to  Mona's.  A  pretty  large  gathering.  Rous- 
sel  told  me  he  wanted  to  paint  my  portrait,  and  asked 
me  to  give  him  sittings.  Some  one  was  speaking  of  a 
poem  by  Browning  being  superlatively  fine  because  of  its 
high  optimism  and  ethical  message.  The  question  is  not 
one  of  weighty  message,  but  of  artistic  presentation.  To 
praise  a  poem  because  of  its  optimism  is  like  commend- 
ing a  peach  because  it  loves  the  sunshine,  rather  than 
because  of  its  distinguishing  bloom  and  savour.  To  urge 
that  a  poem  is  great  because  of  its  high  message  is  almost 
as  uncritical  as  it  would  be  obviously  absurd  to  aver 
that  a  postman  is  illustrious  because  of  some  epic  or 
history  he  may  carry  in  his  bag.  In  a  word,  the  first 
essential  concern  of  the  artist  must  be  with  his  vehicle. 
In  the  instance  of  a  poet,  this  vehicle  is  language  emo- 
tioned to  the  white-heat  of  rhythm." 


BROWNING  163 

"  Jan.  12th. — Wrote  first  portion  of  Elegiac  Poem  on 
*  Browning '  commencing : 

There   is   darkness   everywhere; 
Scarce   is   the   city    limned 
In  shadow  on  the  lagoon. 
No  wind  in  the  heavy  air, 

The    stars    themselves    are   dimmed, 
And  a  mist  veils  the  moon. 

"  After  lunch  took  T.  Mavor  to  Alfred  East's  to  see  his 
Japanese  pictures.  Then  I  took  T.  M.  to  John  M.  Swan's 
Studio.  Then  we  went  to  spend  half  an  hour  with  Step- 
niak  and  his  wife  at  13  Grove  Gardens." 

'^  Jan.  13th. — Late  in  settling  down,  and  then  disin- 
clined to  write  except  in  verse.  Wrote  the  second  and 
final  part  of  the  Elegaic  Browning  Poem  for  Belford's 
Magazine.  It  is  not  often  that  I  indulge  in  inversions: 
but  the  gain  is  sometimes  noticeable.  I  think  it  is  in  this 
stanza : 

Alas,  greatness  is  not,  nor  is 

There  aught  that  is  under  the  sun, 
Nor  any  mortal  thing. 
Neither  the  heights   of  bliss 
Nor  the  depths  of  evil  done, 
Unshadowed  by  Death's  wing." 

He  soon  found  that  it  was  impossible  to  write  the 
monograph  in  London — ^with  its  ceaseless  demands  and 
distractions.  Under  the  pressure  of  much  work  he  be- 
came so  unwell  that  we  realised  he  could  not  finish  the 
book  under  existing  conditions,  therefore  arranged  that 
he  should  leave  me  in  charge  of  work  at  home  and  he 
should  go  to  Hastings  and  devote  himself  mainly  to  his 
Broivning.  On  the  18th  he  records,  from  rooms  over- 
looking the  sea  "  Blew  a  gale  at  night.  The  noise  of  the 
sea  like  a  vast  tide  in  a  hollow  echoing  cavern:  and  a 
shrill  screaming  wail  in  the  wind.  Began  my  Life  of 
Browning.    To  bed  at  12." 

Then  follows  a  record  of  the  work  done  day  by  day : 
on  the  19th,  twelve  printed  pages :  on  the  20th  ten  pages : 
on  the  21st  four  only  because  he  lunched  with  Coventry 
Patmore  who  was  then  residing  at  Hastings.     On  the 


164  WILLIAM    SHARP 

22nd,  thirteen  pages ;  on  the  23rd,  eleven  pages,  and  five 
letters. 

Jan.  26th  has  this  note:  "We  can  no  more  predict 
Browning's  place  in  literature  as  it  will  be  esteemed  by 
posterity  than  we  can  specify  the  fauna  and  flora  of  a 
planet  whose  fires  have  not  yet  suflBciently  cooled  to  ena- 
ble vegetation  to  grow." 

His  stay  at  Hastings  was  rendered  pleasant  by  the 
neighbourliness  of  Coventry  Patmore  with  whom  he  had 
many  long  talks,  and  by  occasional  visits  to  Miss  Betham 
Edwards  who  had  a  house  on  the  hill  beyond  the  old 
castle. 

He  returned  to  town  at  the  beginning  of  February. 

On  the  4th  he  wrote  "  the  first  scene  of  a  Play  (to  be 
called  either  "  The  Lover's  Tragedy,"  or  "  The  Tower  of 
Silence")  which  was  afterward  rewritten  and  published 
in  Vistas  as  "  A  Northern  Night." 

The  Diary  continues: 

"  8th  February.  Began  about  10.30.  (1)  Wrote  the  rest 
of  Imaginary  Journal  (Piero  di  Cosimo)  i.  e.  about  2,000 
words.  In  evening  posted  it  to  Mavor  for  March  is- 
sue of  The  ''Art  Revieiv.  (2)  Wrote  long  London  Let- 
ter for  G.  H.  (2,000  words).  (3)  Began  at  9.30  to  do 
Browning.  Including  quotations  did  10  printed  pages. 
Re-read  the  early  books  of  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book.' 
To  bed  at  2.30.  Tired  somewhat  after  writing  to-day, 
in  all,  about  7,000  words  (less  Browning's  quotations). 

"  Sunday  9th.  Breakfast  at  eleven — Worked  at  Brown- 
ing matter  till  5  (in  bed).  In  evening  Mona,  and  Mathilde 
came  in  and  Frank  Rinder,  Ernest  Rhys,  etc.  Wrote 
Young  Folk's  Paper  article.    Read  up  till  about  3  a.m. 

10th.  Worked  six  hours  on  end  at  Browning  material. 
Between  tea  and  dinner  wrote  Chap.  18  of  Ordeal  of  Basil 
Hope;  after  dinner  wrote  Chap.  19.  At  10  went  up  to 
Mona's  to  fetch  Lill.  Egmont  Hake  there,  W.  Earl  Hodg- 
son and  Miss  Shedlock,  Mathilde  Blind. 

11th.  At  British  Museum  all  day,  working  at  '  Odes.' 
(This  selection  of  Odes  in  the  Canterbury  Poets.) 

In  evening  wrote  six  p.  p.  of  Browning. 


BROWNING  165 

12t}i.  (1)  In  first  part  of  day  wrote  6  pages  of  Brown- 
mg.  (2)  Short  London  Letter  for  G.  H.  From  5  to  8  I 
wrote  Chap.  20  of  Basil  Hope.  (4)  After  dinner  (between 
9  and  12.30)  wrote  8  more  pages  of  Browning  (14  in  all 
to-day). 

13th.  Wrote  12  pages  of  Browning  and  Chap.  XXI 
of  Basil  Hope. 

^^  February  14th. — In  morning,  late  afternoon  and 
evening  (from  9-12)  wrote  in  all  18  printed  pages  of 
Browning,  or,  including  quotation,  21." 

Here  the  Diary  abruptly  ends.  I  do  not  recollect  on 
what  date  the  Browning  was  finished,  but  it  was  pub- 
lished in  the  early  autumn.  And  I  have  no  recollection 
as  to  what  became  of  The  Ordeal  of  Basil  Hope,  whether 
or  not  it  ever  appeared  serially,  but  I  think  not.  It  never 
was  issued  in  book  form — and  from  the  time  we  gave 
up  the  house  in  Goldhurst  Terrace  he  never  gave  it  a 
thought.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  when  a  piece 
of  work  was  finished  or  discarded,  it  passed  wholly  out 
of  his  mind,  for  his  energies  were  always  centred  on  his 
work  on  hand  and  on  that  projected. 

He  was  a  careful  student  of  the  progress  of  contempo- 
rary literatures — especially  French  (including  Belgian) 
Italian  and  American — and  during  the  spring  and  sum- 
mer he  wrote  a  long  article  on  American  literature  for 
The  National  Review ;  an  article  on  D'Annunzio  for  The 
Fortnightly.  He  also  prepared  a  volume  in  English  of 
selected  Essays  of  St.  Beuve  for  which  he  wrote  a  careful 
critical  Preface. 

The  three  years  at  Hampstead  had  been  happy  and  suc- 
cessful. William  had  regained  health;  and  had  a  com- 
mand of  work  that  made  the  ways  of  life  pleasant.  We 
had  about  us  a  genial  sympathetic  group  of  friends,  and 
were  in  touch  with  many  keen  minds  of  the  day.  Tem- 
peramentally he  could  work  or  play  with  equal  jest  and 
enjoyment ;  he  threw  himself  whole  heartedly  into  what- 
ever he  did.  Observant,  keenly  intuitive,  he  cared  to  come 
into  contact  with  all  kinds  and  types  of  men  and  women ; 


166  WILLIAM   SHARP 

cared  continually  to  test  tlie  different  minds  and  tem- 
peraments he  came  across,  providing  always  that  they 
had  a  vital  touch  about  them,  and  were  not  comatosely 
conventional.  Curious  about  life,  he  cared  incessantly  to 
experiment;  restless  and  never  satisfied  (I  do  not  mean 
dissatisfied)  he  constantly  desired  new  fields  for  this 
experimentation.  Therefore,  happy  though  he  had  been 
at  Wescam,  successful  as  that  experiment  had  proved, 
he  felt  it  had  served  its  turn  and  he  longed  for  different 
circumstances,  different  environment,  new  possibilities  in 
which  to  attempt  to  give  fuller  expression  of  himself.  He 
realised  that  nothing  more  would  happen  under  the  then 
existing  conditions,  satisfactory  though  they  seemed  ex- 
ternally ;  that  indeed  the  satisf  actoriness  was  a  chain  that 
was  winding  round  him  and  fettering  him  to  a  form  of 
life  that  was  becoming  rigid  and  monotonous,  and,  there- 
fore, paralysing  to  all  those  inner  impulses.  His  visit  to 
America  had  re-awakened  the  desire  to  wander.  So  we 
gave  up  our  house,  stored  our  furniture,  and  planned  to 
go  abroad  for  the  first  winter  and  leave  the  future  "  in 
the  lap  of  the  Gods  " ;  for  was  he  not  "  of  the  unnumbered 
clan  that  know  a  longing  that  is  unquiet  as  the  restless 
wave  ..."  the  "  deep  hunger  for  experience,  even  if  it 
be  bitter,  the  longing  for  things  known  to  be  unattain- 
able, the  remembrance  that  strives  for  rebirth."  That 
summer  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Stedman: 

"...  You  will  ere  this  have  received  the  copy  of  the 
little  book  of  Great  Odes:  English  and  American  which 
I  sent  to  you.  I  think  I  told  you  that  your  own  beautiful 
'  Ode  to  Pastoral  Romance '  has  appealed  to  many  peo- 
ple, and  will,  I  hope  and  believe,  send  new  readers  to 
you,  among  the  new  generation,  as  a  poet.  Well,  we  are 
breaking  up  our  home,  and  are  going  to  leave  London 
for  a  long  time — probably  for  ever  as  a  fixed  '  residentz 
platz.'  Most  of  my  acquaintances  think  I  am  very  foolish 
thus  to  withdraw  from  the  '  thick  of  the  fight '  just  when 
things  are  going  so  well  with  me,  and  when  I  am  making 
a  good  and  rapidly  increasing  income — for  I  am  giving 
up  nearly  every  appointment  I  hold,  and  am  going  abroad. 


BKOWNING  167 

having  burned  my  ships  behind  me,  and  determined  to 
begin  literary  life  anew.  But,  truly  enough,  wisdom  does 
not  lie  in  money  making — not  for  the  artist  who  cares 
for  his  work  at  any  rate.  I  am  tired  of  so  much  pot- 
boiling,  such  increasing  bartering  of  literary  merchan- 
dise: and  wish  to  devote  myself  entirely — or  as  closely 
as  the  fates  will  permit — to  work  in  which  my  heart  is. 
I  am  buoyant  with  the  belief  that  it  is  in  me  to  do  some- 
thing both  in  prose  and  verse  far  beyond  any  hitherto 
accomplishment  of  mine :  but  to  stay  here  longer,  and  let 
the  net  close  more  and  more  round  me,  would  be  fatal. 
Of  course  I  go  away  at  a  heavy  loss.  My  income  will  at 
once  drop  to  zero,  and  even  after  six  months  or  so  will 
scarce  have  risen  a  few  degrees  above  that  awkward  limit 
— though  ultimately  things  may  readjust  themselves. 
Yet  I  would  rather — I  am  ready — I  should  say  we  are 
ready — to  live  in  the  utmost  economy  if  need  be.  We 
shall  be  none  the  less  happy :  for  my  wife,  with  her  usual 
loving  unselfishness  and  belief  in  me,  is  as  eager  as  I  am 
for  the  change,  despite  all  the  risks.  Among  the  younger 
writers  few  have  the  surely  not  very  high  courage  neces- 
sary to  give  up  something  of  material  welfare  for  the 
sake  of  art.  As  for  us,  we  are  both  at  heart  Bohemians 
— and  are  well  content  if  we  can  have  good  shelter,  enough 
to  eat,  books,  music,  friends,  sunshine  and  free  nature — 
all  of  which  we  can  have  with  the  scantiest  of  purses. 
Perhaps  I  should  be  less  light-hearted  in  the  matter  if 
I  thought  that  our  coming  Bohemian  life  might  involve 
my  wife  in  hard  poverty  when  my  hour  comes,  but  for- 
tunately her  future  is  assured.  So  henceforth,  in  a  word, 
I  am  going  to  take  down  the  board 

WILLIAM     SHARP 

Literary  Manufacturer 

(All  kinds  of  jobs  undertaken) 

and  substitute: 

WILLIAM     SHARP 

Given  up  Business:  Moved  to  Bohemia. 

Publishers  and  Editors  Need  not  Apply. 

Friends  can  write  to  W.  S.  %  "  Drama  "  "  Fiction  "  or  "  Poetry," 

Live-as-you-will  Quarter,  Bohemia. 


168  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

This  day  week  we  leave  our  house  for  good.  My  wife 
and  I  then  go  into  Hampshire  to  breathe  the  hay  and  the 
roses  for  a  week  at  a  friend's  place,  7  miles  across  the 
Downs  north  of  Winchester :  then  back  to  London  to  stay 
with  our  friend,  Mrs.  Mona  Caird,  till  about  the  20th  of 
July.  About  that  date  we  go  to  Scotland,  to  my  joy,  till 
close  on  the  end  of  September.  Thereafter  we  return 
to  London  for  a  week  or  so,  and  then  go  abroad.  We  are 
bound  first  for  the  lower  Ehineland,  and  intend  to  stay 
at  Heidelberg  (being  cheap,  pretty,  thoroughly  German, 
with  good  music  and  a  good  theatre)  for  about  two 
months.  Then,  about  the  beginning  of  December,  we  go 
to  Rome,  where  we  intend  to  settle:  climatic,  financial, 
and  other  considerations  will  decide  whether  we  remain 
there  longer  than  six  months,  but  six  ideal  months  at  least 
we  hope  for.  Mihi  sex  menses  satis  sunt  vitcs  septimum 
Oreo  spondeo. 

That  summer  we  went  to  Clynder  on  the  Gareloch, 
Argyll,  in  order  to  be  near  my  husband's  old  friend.  Dr. 
Donald  Macleod,  who,  as  he  records  in  his  diary  "  sang 
to  me  with  joyous  abandonment  a  Neapolitan  song,  and 
asked  me  to  send  him  a  MS.  from  Italy  for  Good  Words." 
While  we  were  in  the  West  we  made  acquaintance  with 
the  poet-editor  of  The  Yorkshire  Herald,  George  Cotter- 
ell,  who  became  a  dear  and  valued  friend.  I  cannot  re- 
call if  it  were  in  the  early  summer  of  1889  or  1890  that 
my  husband  was  first  approached  on  the  subject  of  the 
Joseph  Severn  Memoirs,  but  I  remember  the  circum- 
stance. We  spent  a  week-end  in  Surrey  with  some  old 
friends  of  my  mother.  Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Hughes,  and 
one  morning  Mr.  Walter  Severn,  the  painter,  walked  over 
to  luncheon.  He  spoke  about  my  husband's  Life  of 
Rossetti,  then  of  the  quantity  of  unpublished  MSS.  he  and 
his  family  had  written  by  and  relating  to  his  father, 
Joseph  Severn,  "  the  friend  of  Keats."  Finally  he  pro- 
posed that  his  listener  should  take  over  the  MSS.,  put 
them  in  form  and  write  a  Life  of  Severn,  with,  as  the 
special  point  of  literary  interest,  his  father's  devoted 


BROWNING  169 

friendship  with  and  care  of  the  dying  poet.  After  con- 
siderable deliberation,  W.  S.  agreed  to  undertake  the 
work,  and  arrangements  were  made  with  Messrs.  Samson 
Low  to  publish  it.  The  preparing  of  this  Memoir  brought 
him  into  pleasant  relationship  not  only  with  Mr.  Walter 
Severn,  and  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Severn,  but  also 
with  Ruskin,  who  he  visited  later  at  Coniston,  where  he 
was  delighted,  among  other  things,  with  the  fine  collec- 
tion of  minerals  and  stones  that  was  one  of  Ruskin's 
hobbies. 

The  preparation  of  The  Joseph  Severn  Memoirs  neces- 
sarily entailed  correspondence  with  members  and  friends 
of  that  family,  among  others  with  W.  W.  Story,  the  sculp- 
tor, who  sent  him  the  following  information : 

"  I  knew  Mr.  Severn  at  Rome  and  frequently  met  and 
saw  him  but  I  can  recall  nothing  which  would  be  of  value 
to  you.  He  was,  as  you  know,  a  most  pleasant  man — 
and  in  the  minds  of  all  is  associated  with  the  memory  of 
Keats  by  whose  side  he  lies  in  the  Protestant  Cemetery 
at  Rome.  When  the  bodies  were  removed,  as  they  were 
several  years  ago,  and  laid  side  by  side,  there  was  a  little 
funeral  ceremony  and  I  made  an  address  on  the  occasion 
in  honour  and  commemoration  of  the  two  friends.  I  re- 
member we  then  had  hoped  that  Lord  Houghton  would 
have  been  able  to  be  present  as  he  had  promised.  But 
he  was  taken  ill  in  the  East,  where  he  was  then  journey- 
ing, and  I  had  to  express  the  fear  lest  the  ceremony  might 
be  a  commemoration  not  only  of  two  but  of  the  three 
friends  so  intimately  associated  together.  However, 
Houghton  did  recover  from  the  attack  and  came  after- 
ward to  Rome,  sadly  broken." 

Early  in  October  my  husband  and  I  crossed  to  Antwerp 
and  stopped  at  Bonn.  The  Rhine  disappointed  William's 
expectations.  He  wrote  to  a  friend :  "  The  real  charm  of 
the  Rhine,  beyond  the  fascination  that  all  rivers  and  riv- 
erine scenery  have  for  most  people,  is  that  of  literary  and 
historical  romance.  The  Rhine  is  in  this  respect  the  Nile 
of  Europe :  though  probably  none  but  Germans  feel  thus 
strongly.     For  myself  I  cannot  but  think  it  ought  not 


170  WILLIAM   SHARP 

to  be  a  wholly  German  river,  but  from  every  point  of 
view  be  the  Franco-German  boundary.  .  .  .  Germany  has 
much  to  gain  from  a  true  communion  with  its  more 
charming  neighbour.  The  world  would  jog  on  just  the 
same  if  Germany  were  annihilated  by  France,  Russia 
and  Italy:  but  the  disappearance  of  brilliant,  vivacious, 
intellectual  France  would  be  almost  as  serious  a  loss  to 
intellectual  Europe,  as  would  be  to  the  people  at  large  the 
disappearance  of  the  Moon." 

From  Rome  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier : 

Dec,  1890. 

"...  Well,  we  were  glad  to  leave  Germany.  Broadly, 
it  is  a  joyless  place  for  Bohemians.  It  is  all  beer,  coarse 
jokes,  coarse  living,  and  domestic  tyranny  on  the  man's 
part,  subjection  on  the  woman's — on  the  one  side :  pedan- 
tic learning,  scientific  pedagogism,  and  mental  ennui;  on 
the  other :  with,  of  course,  a  fine  leavening  somewhere  of 
the  salt  of  life.  However,  it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  we 
were  not  there  at  the  best  season  in  which  to  see  the 
blither  side  of  Germans  and  German  life.  I  saw  a  good 
deal  of  the  southern  principalities  and  kingdoms — the 
Rhine  provinces,  Baden,  Wiirtemberg,  and  Bavaria.  Of 
course  Heidelberg,  where  we  stayed  six  wet  weeks,  is  the 
most  picturesque  of  the  residential  places  (towns  like 
Frankfort-am-Main  and  Mannheim  are  only  for  mer- 
chants and  traders,  though  they  have  music  "galore"), 
but  I  would  rather  stay  at  Stuttgart  than  any  I  saw.  It  is 
wonderfully  animated  and  pleasing  for  a  German  town, 
and  has  a  charming  double  attraction  both  as  a  mediaeval 
city  and  as  a  modern  capital.  There,  too,  I  have  a  friend : 
the  American  novelist,  Blanche  Willis  Howard  (author 
of  Guenn,  The  Open  Door,  etc.),  who  is  now  the  wife  of 
the  Court-Physician  to  the  Eling  of  Wiirtemberg  and  re- 
joices in  the  title  "  Frau  Hof-Arzt  von  Teuffel."  Dr.  von 
Teuffel  himself  is  one  of  the  few  Germans  who  seem  to 
regard  women  as  equals. 

"  But  what  a  relief  it  was  to  be  in  Italy  again,  though 


BROWNING  171 

not  just  at  first,  for  the  weather  at  Verona  was  atrocious, 
and  snow  lay  thick  past  Mantua  to  Bologna.  But  once 
the  summit  of  the  Apennines  was  reached,  and  the  mag- 
nificent and  unique  prospect  of  Florentine  Tuscany  lay 
below,  flooded  in  sunshine  and  glowing  colour  (though 
it  was  in  the  second  week  of  December)  we  realised  that 
at  last  we  were  in  Italy.  .  .  .  When  we  came  to  Rome  we 
had  at  first  some  difficulty  in  getting  rooms  which  at  once 
suited  our  tastes  and  our  pockets.  But  now  we  are  set- 
tled in  an  "  apartment "  of  3|  rooms,  within  a  yard  or  so 
of  the  summit  of  the  Quirinal  Hill.  The  ^  is  a  small 
furnished  corridor  or  ante-room:  the  comfortable  salotto, 
is  at  once  our  study,  drawing-room,  and  parlour. 

"  We  have  our  coffee  and  our  fruit  in  the  morning :  and 
when  we  are  in  for  lunch  our  old  landlady  gives  us  de- 
lightful colazioni  of  maccaroni  and  tomatoes,  or  spinach 
and  lentils,  or  eggs  and  something  else,  with  roasted 
chestnuts  and  light  wine  and  bread.  We  have  our  dinner 
sent  in  from  a  trattoria. 

"  In  a  sense,  I  have  been  indolent  of  late :  but  I  have 
been  thinking  much,  and  am  now,  directly  or  indirectly, 
occupied  with  several  ambitious  undertakings.  Fiction, 
other  imaginative  prose,  and  the  drama  (poetic  and 
prose),  besides  a  lyrical  drama,  and  poetry  generally, 
would  fain  claim  my  pen  all  day  long.  As  for  my  lyrical 
drama — which  is  the  only  poetic  work  not  immediately 
modern  in  theme — which  is  called  '  Bacchus  in  India  ' ; 
my  idea  is  to  deal  in  a  new  and  I  hope  poetic  way  with 
Dionysos  as  the  Joy-Bringer,  the  God  of  Joyousness.  In 
the  first  part  there  is  the  union  of  all  the  links  between 
Man  and  the  World  he  inhabits :  Bacchus  goes  forth  in 
joy,  to  give  his  serene  message  to  all  the  world.  The 
second  part,  '  The  Return,'  is  wild  disaster,  and  the  bit- 
terness of  shame :  though  even  there,  and  in  the  Epilogue, 
will  sound  the  clarion  of  a  fresh  Return  to  Joy.  I  tran- 
scribe and  enclose  the  opening  scene  for  you — as  it  at 
present  stands,  unrevised.  The  '  lost  God '  referred  to 
in  the  latter  part  is  really  that  deep  corrosive  Melancholy 
whom  so  many  poets  and  artists — from  Dante  and  Durer 


172  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

to   our  own   time — have   dimly   descried   as   a   terrible 
Power. 

"  At  the  moment  I  am  most  of  all  interested  in  my  blank- 
verse  tragedy.  It  deals  with  a  most  terrible  modern  in- 
stance of  the  scriptural  warming  as  to  the  sins  of  the 
father  being  visited  upon  his  children :  an  instance  where 
the  father  himself  shares  the  doom  and  the  agony.  Then 
I  have  also  schemed  out,  and  hope  soon  to  get  on  with, 
a  prose  play,  dealing  with  the  deep  wrong  done  to  women 
by  certain  existing  laws.  Among  other  prose  books  (fic- 
tion) which  I  have  "on  the  stocks"  nothing  possesses 
me  more  than  a  philosophical  work  which  I  shall  prohably 
publish  either  anonymously  or  under  a  pseudonym,  and, 
I  hope,  before  next  winter.  How  splendid  it  is  to  be 
alive !  0  if  one  could  only  crush  into  a  few  vivid  years 
the  scattered  fruit  of  wasted  seasons.  There  is  such  a 
host  of  things  to  do :  such  a  bitter  sparsity  of  time,  after 
bread-and-butter  making,  to  do  them  in — even  to  dream 
of  them ! " 

These  various  schemes  planned  mentally  were  never 
realised.  William  constantly  projected  and  of  the 
roughly  drafted  out  possible  work  that  absorbed  him  dur- 
ing its  conception,  but  was  put  aside  when  a  more  domi- 
nating idea  demanded  full  expression.  "  Bacchus  in  In- 
dia "  remained  a  fragment.  Neither  the  tragedy  nor  that 
prose  play  was  finished,  and  the  philosophical  work  was 
never  begun.  A  new  impulse  came,  new  work  grew  out 
of  the  impressions  of  that  Roman  winter  which  swept  out 
of  his  mind  all  other  cartooned  work. 


CHAPTER   XI 

ROME 

Sospiri  di  Roma 

Winter  in  Rome  was  one  long  delight  to  the  emanci- 
pated writer.  It  amply  fulfilled  even  his  optimistic  anti- 
cipation. He  revelled  in  the  sunshine  and  the  beauty; 
he  was  in  perfect  health ;  his  imagination  was  quickened 
and  worked  with  great  activity.  We  had  about  us  a  little 
group  of  friends,  who,  like  ourselves,  intended  to  live 
quietly  and  simply.  Among  these  were  Mrs.  Caird  who 
had  come  abroad  for  her  health;  Sir  Charles  Holroyd, 
who  had  a  studio  in  the  Via  Margoutta,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Elihu  Vedder.  Mrs.  Wingate  Rinder  joined  us  for 
three  weeks,  and  with  her  my  husband  greatly  enjoyed 
long  walks  over  the  Campagna  and  expeditions  to  the  lit- 
tle neighbouring  hill  towns.  His  Diary  for  the  beginning 
of  1891  was  kept  with  creditable  regularity,  and  contains 
a  record  of  some  of  these  expeditions  and  of  work  done  in 
Rome,  in  particular  of  the  dates  on  which  the  poems  of 
Sospiri  di  Roma  were  written.  From  it  I  have  selected 
entries. 

"  Jan.  2nd.  .  .  .  Read  through  and  revised  '  Bacchus 
in  India.'  Added  the  (I  think  good)  adjective  '  sun- 
sparkled  wood.  ..." 

Poetry  is  a  glorious  rebirth  of  prose.  When  a  beauti- 
ful thought  can  be  uttered  in  worthy  prose :  best  so.  But 
when  it  moves  through  the  mind  in  music,  and  shapes 
itself  to  a  lyric  rhythm,  then  it  should  find  expression  in 
poetry.  The  truest  poets  are  those  who  can  most  ex- 
quisitely capture,  and  concentrate  in  a  few  words,  this 
haunting  rhythm. 

Jan.  3rd.  The  morning  broke  well,  though  not  so  prom- 
isingly as  yesterday.  .  .  .  Caught  the  9  a.m.  train  for  Al- 

173 


174  WILLIAM    SHARP 

bano  Laziale.  Marnio  is  a  fine  and  picturesque  hill-city. 
After  passing  it  we  admired  the  view  of  the  Lake  of 
Albano,  with  its  abrupt  variations  of  light  and  profound 
shadow.  Arrived  at  Albano  we  walked  by  the  way  of 
the  Viaduct  to  L'Ariccia,  with  lovely  views  of  the  Cam- 
pagna  to  the  right:  of  Monte  Cavo  and  Rocca  di  Papa 
to  the  left.  Then  on  by  a  lovely  road  to  Genzano.  Hav- 
ing gone  through  the  lower  part  and  out  again  into  the 
Campagna  we  turned  southward,  and  in  due  time  reached 
the  high  ground,  with  its  olive-orchards,  looking  down 
upon  the  Lake  of  Nemi.  It  looked  lovely  in  its  grey-blue 
stillness,  with  all  the  sunlit  but  yet  sombre  winterliness 
around.  Nemi,  itself,  lay  apparently  silent  and  lifeless, 
'  a  city  of  dream,'  on  a  height  across  the  lake.  One  could 
imagine  that  Nemi  and  Genzano  had  once  been  the  same 
town,  and  had  been  riven  asunder  by  a  volcano.  The 
lake-filled  crater  now  divides  these  two  little  hill-set 
towns.  .  .  .  AValked  through  Albano  to  the  N.W.  gate, 
past  the  ancient  tomb,  and  along  the  beautiful  ilex- 
bordered  road  leading  to  Castel-Gandolfo.  Saw  two  Cap- 
uchin friars  with  extraordinary  faces.  They  fitted  the 
scene.  Magnificent  views  of  the  Campagna,  tinted  with 
a  faint  pink-grey  mist :  of  Ostea,  etc. :  and  of  the  strange 
dreamful,  partially  sunlit  Tyrrhene  sea.  Then  through 
Castel  Gandolfo,  with  lovely  views  of  Lake  Albano. 
Broke  our  fast  with  some  apples.  Down  the  steep  front 
till  we  joined  the  road  just  above  the  little  station,  where 
we  caught  the  train  10  minutes  later.  The  Aqua  Felice 
and  Claudian  Aqueducts  seen  to  great  advantage  in  re- 
turning across  the  Campagna  to  Rome. 

Jan.  5th.  A  fine  morning,  with  a  delicate  hint  of 
Spring  in  the  air.  .  .  .  Caught  the  train  for  Champino, 
near  Frascati.  The  officials  at  the  station  seemed  amazed 
at  our  descending  there.  No  one  ever  does  so,  it  seems ! 
There  was  literally  no  regular  way  out  of  the  station,  and 
when  I  asked  how  we  were  to  get  out  the  man  did  not 
know.  Neither  he  nor  the  clerk,  nor  the  others  who  gath- 
ered round  knew  the  road  back  to  Rome !  At  last  some 
one  from  the  train  suggested  that  if  we  struck  across 


EOME  175 

country  we  would  come  to  the  Via  Appia.  We  had  a 
pleasant  walk  across  a  barren  part  of  the  Campagna 
intersected  by  railway  cuttings,  and  at  last  came  to  a 
place  called  Frattochie,  whence  a  road  led  us  to  the  Via 
Appia  Nuova.  From  this  again  we  struck  across  a  field 
and  came  upon  the  Via  Appia  Antica,  adown  which  we 
had  a  splendid  and  absolutely  solitary  walk.  We  saw 
no  one  but  a  few  shepherds  at  a  distance,  with  their  large 
white  dogs  and  sheep.  Often  stopped  among  the  ruins, 
or  at  the  top  of  one  of  the  grassy  tombs  to  hear  the  wind 
among  the  pines,  along  the  grass,  or  in  the  crevices  of 
the  wall.  A  few  drops  of  rain  fell  as  we  neared  the  tomb 
of  Cecilia  Metella,  and  soon  the  rain-storm,  which  we 
had  watched  approaching  across  the  Campagna,  came  on. 
The  first  three  wayside  trattorie  we  came  to  were  shut, 
but  in  the  fourth,  a  peasant's  resort,  we  got  some  bread, 
and  white  and  poor  Marino.  We  shared  some  of  the 
bread  with  a  large  dog,  and  gave  some  wine  to  a  malari- 
ous-looking poor  devil  of  a  labourer.  Eeturned  by  the 
Gate  of  San  Sebastiano. 

Jan.  8th.  .  .  .  Bought  L'Evolution  des  Genres  dans 
VHistoire  de  la  Litterature  by  Ferdinand  Brunetiere; 
Eoux's  book  on  Italian  Literature ;  Pierre  Loti's  Manage 
de  Loti.  After  dinner  copied  out  'Eebirth'  (Spring's 
Advent)  to  send  to  Belford's,  and  '  The  Sheik'  for  N.  Y. 
Independent. 

This  forenoon  the  house  nearly  opposite  fell  in.  We 
saw  one  man  brought  out  dead.  Seven  others  were  said 
to  be  buried  in  the  ruins.  The  King  came  later  on  and 
himself  helped  one  of  the  wounded  out  and  took  him  to 
the  hospital. 

Jan.  9th.  Wet  and  rain.  The  Campagna  covered  with 
snow.  In  the  forenoon  I  wrote  four  more  of  my  '  Ebb 
and  Flow '  Series  of  Sea  Poems — '  Phosphorescence 
before  Storm  ' — '  Tempest  Music ' — ^  Dead  Calm :  Noon ' 
and  '  Dead  Calm :  Midnight.'  The  others  were  written 
some  on  the  French  coast  some  on  the  English  in  1887. 
'  Tempest-Music '  and  the  two  *  Dead  Calm '  are  as  good 
if  not  better  than  any  in  the  series.    In  all  the  latter  I 


176  WILLIAM   SHARP 

care  most  for  the  '  Swimmer  at  Sunrise  '  and  '  The  Dead- 
Calm-Noon  ' :  also  for  '  Tempest  Music' 

.  .  .  After  dinner  read  to  Lill  for  a  bit  including  the 
prose  version  (outline)  of  my  "  Lilith." 

To-day  the  anniversary  of  the  Death  of  Victor  Em- 
manuel, 13  years  ago.  The  Italians  idolise  his  memory, 
and  call  him  "  The  Father  of  the  Country."  He  is  rap- 
idly becoming  a  Presiding  Deity.  10th  rewrote  and  great- 
ly improved  "  Phosphorescence."  Its  two  opening  lines, 
originally, 

"  As  hill  winds  and  sun  and  rains  inweave  a  veil 
Of  lichen  round  vast  boulders  on  the  mountain  side." 

were  out  of  keeping  in  imagery  with  the  rest :  and  in 
every  way 

"  As  some  aerial  spirit  weaves  a  rainbow  veil 
Of  Mist,  his  high  immortal  loveliness  to  hide." 

are  better.  Should  have  preferred  "  wild  "  to  "  high  " 
in  this  line,  but  the  4th  teiininal  is  "  wild."  Perhaps  not, 
after  all. 

Jan.  16th.  Although  it  was  so  cold  and  wintry  with 
signs  of  snow  in  suspension  caught  the  train  for  Tivoli. 
The  scenery  extremely  beautiful,  and  doubly  fascinating 
and  strange  from  the  whirling  snow  falling  every  here 
and  there,  in  strangely  intermittent  and  separate  fashion. 
The  sheep  and  disconsolate  shepherds  on  one  high  healthy 
part  made  a  fantastic  foreground.  At  Tivoli,  which  was 
like  a  hill  town  in  Scotland  in  midwinter,  with  a  storm 
raging,  we  walked  past  the  first  cascades,  then  up  a  nar- 
row hill-path  partly  snowed  up,  partly  frozen,  to  the 
open  country  beyond.  Then  back  and  into  a  trattoria 
where  we  had  lunch  of  wine,  omelette,  bread,  fruit,  and 
coffee. 

Jan.  17th.  Midwinter  with  a  vengeance.  Eome  might 
be  St.  Petersburg.  Snow  heavy  and  a  hard  frost.  Even 
the  Fountain  of  the  Tritone  hung  all  over  with  long 
spears  and  pendicles  of  ice. — Later,  I  went  out,  to  walk 
to  and  fro  on  the  Pincio  Terrace  in  the  whirling  snow. 


ROME  177 

which  I  enjoyed  beyond  words.  There  was  a  lull,  and 
then  I  saw  the  storm  clouds  sweep  up  from  the  Maremma, 
across  the  Campagna  and  blot  out  Rome  bit  by  bit. 
"Walking  to  and  fro  I  composed  the  lyric,  beginning : 

"  There  is  a  land  of  dream : 
I  have  trodden  its  golden  ways: 
I  have  seen  its  amber  light 
From  the  heart  of  its  sun-swept  days: 
I  have  seen  its  moonshine  white 
On  its   silent  waters  gleam — 
Ah,  the  strange,  sweet,  lonely  delight 
Of  the  Valleys  of  Dream!  " 

Returning  by  the  Pincian  Gate,  about  5.45  there  was  a 
strange  sight.  Perfectly  still  in  the  sombre  Via  di  Mura, 
with  high  walls  to  the  right,  but  the  upper  pines  and 
cypresses  swaying  in  a  sudden  rush  of  wind :  to  the  left 
a  drifting  snow-storm:  to  the  right  wintry  moonshine: 
vivid  sweeping  pulsations  of  lightning  from  the  Cam- 
pagna, and  long  low  muttering  growls  of  thunder.  (The 
red  light  from  a  window  in  the  wall.) 

Jan.  19th.  After  dinner  read  a  good  deal  of  Beddoes 
to  Lill.  .  .  .  How  like  Poe  the  first  stanza  of  '  The  Old 
Ghost ' :  every  now  and  again  there  is  a  gleam  of  rare 
moon-white  beauty,  as  in  the  lovely  3rd  stanza  of  '  The 
Ballad  of  Human  Life ' — the  first  quatrain  of  the  2nd 
stanza  of  *  Dial  Thoughts,'  and  that  beautiful  line  in  the 
fantastic  and  ultra-Shelleyian  '  Romance  of  the  Lily,' 

'  As  Evening  feeds  the  waves  with  brooks  of  quiet  life.' 

Jan.  22nd.  In  the  evening  read  through  Elihu  Vedder's 
Primitive  Folk.  There  is  a  definite  law  in  the  evolution 
of  sexual  morale,  I  am  sure,  if  one  could  only  get  at  it. 
The  matter  is  worth  going  into,  both  for  Fundamental 
and  Contemporary  and  Problematical  Ethics. 

Jan.  27th.  Elizabeth  and  I  went  to  the  opening  lecture 
of  the  Archasological  Society,  at  the  Hotel  Marini.  Lord 
Dufferin  in  the  Chair.  Mr.  Porter,  U.  S.  Minister,  de- 
livered an  address,  mainly  on  Cicero.  .  .  .  Lord  Dufferin 


178  WILLIAM   SHARP 

afterwards  told  us  incidentally  that  a  friend  of  his  had 
gone  into  a  book  shop  in  the  Corso  and  asked  for  Max 
O'Rell:  En  Amerique.  The  bookseller  said  he  neither 
had  the  book  nor  had  he  heard  of  it :  now  the  visitor  per- 
sisted and  the  bookseller  in  despair  exclaimed,  '  Dio  mio, 
Signor,  I  never  even  heard  of  Marc  Aurele  having  been 
in  America ! ' 

Jan.  30th.  After  lunch  we  went  for  a  drive  in  the 
Campagna.  .  .  .  Delighting  in  the  warm  balmy  air,  the 
superb  views,  the  space  and  freedom,  the  soft  turfy  soil 
under  foot,  the  excited  congregation  of  larks  twittering 
as  they  wheeled  about,  soon  to  pair,  and  one  early  song- 
ster already  trilling  his  song  along  the  flowing  wind  high 
overhead. 

Between  9  p.m.  and  12  p.m.  my  ears  were  full  of  music. 
Wrote  the  Sospiri,  '  The  Fountain  of  the  Aqua  Paola ' ; 
'  Ruins  ' ;  '  High  Noon  at  Midsummer  on  the  Campagna ' ; 
'  Sussurri ' ;  '  Breath  of  the  Grass  ' ;  '  Red  Poppies  ' ;  and 
the  lyric  Spring. 

Jan.  31st.  Wrote  to-day.  '  The  Mandolin  '  {Sospiri  di 
Roma)  (115  lines).  In  afternoon  wrote  'All'  Ora  della 
Stella'  (Vesper  Bells),  partly  from  memory  of  what  I 
have  heard,  several  times,  and  partly  modified  by  a  poem 
I  chanced  to  see  to-day,  Fogazzaro's  '  A  Sera.' " 

February  2nd.  Second  day  of  the  Carnival.  Wrote 
all  forenoon  and  part  of  afternoon.  Took  up  and  revised 
'  The  Fountain  of  the  Aqua  Paola '  and  added  so  largely 
to  it  as  to  make  it  a  new  poem.  It  ended  with  '  Eternal 
Calm.'  Also  wrote  '  The  Fallen  Goddess ' — about  250 
lines  in  length.  In  the  evening  wrote  '  Bats'  Wings  '  (26 
11)  and  'Thistledown'  (Spring  on  the  Campagna)  (71 
11). 

Such  bursts  of  uncontrollable  poetic  impulse  as  came 
to  me  to-day,  and  the  last  three  days,  only  come  rarely 
in  each  year.  It  was  in  such  a  burst  last  year  (1889  f ) 
that  I  wrote  '  The  Weird  of  Michael  Scott '  (each  part 
at  a  single  sitting). 

Feb.  4th.    Wrote  the  Sospiro  '  To  my  Dream.' 

Feb.  5th.    Between  10  p.m.  and  1.30  a.m.  wrote  the  poem 


EOME  179 

which  I  think  I  will  call  '  Fior  di  Memoria '  (about  175 
lines). 

Feb.  7th.  We  went  to  Ettore  Eoesler  Franz's  studio. 
His  water-colour  drawings  of  (mediaeval)  Rome  as  it  was 
from  the  middle  of  the  century  to  within  the  last  7  or 
10  years  very  charming  and  deeply  interesting  and  valu- 
able— and  at  the  same  time  infinitely  sad.  Those  of  the 
Prati  di  Castello  and  the  Tiber  Bank  and  Stream  espe- 
cially so:  instead  of  this  lost  beauty  we  have  hideous 
jerry  buildings,  bad  bridges,  monotonous  and  colourless 
banks,  and  dull  municipal  mediocrity  and  common-place 
everywhere. 

There  might  be  a  Weeping  Wall  in  Rome  as  well  as 
in  Jerusalem.  Truly  enough  there  will  soon  be  absolute 
truth  in  Bacon's  noble  saying  '  The  souls  of  the  living 
are  the  beauty  of  the  world ' — for  the  world  will  be  re- 
duced to  the  sway  of  the  plumber  and  builder,  and  arti- 
ficial gardener  and  Bumbledom. 

In  evening  wrote  "  Primo  Sospiro  di  Primavera." 

8th.  In  forenoon  wrote  "  The  White  Peacock "  (56 
lines) — a  study  in  Whites  for  Theodore  Roussel.  Also 
"  The  Swimmer  of  Nemi  "  (Red  and  White)  42  lines.  In 
evening  revised  the  "  Swimmer  of  Nemi "  and  partly 
rewrote  or  recast.  It  is  much  improved  in  definite  effect ; 
and  gains  by  the  deletion  of  9  or  10  lines,  pretty  in  them- 
selves but  not  in  perfect  harmony.  Wrote  the  poem  com- 
memorating the  strange  evening  of  17th  Jan.  .  .  .  called 
it  "A  Winter  Evening"  (35  lines).  Later.  Wrote  the 
poem  called  "  Scirocco  "  (June),  67  lines.  To  bed  about 
12.30. 

10th.  Gave  first  sitting  to  Charles  Holroyd  for  his 
Etching  of  me. 

11th.  Gave  Charles  Holroyd  a  second  sitting.  Between 
9  and  2  a.m.  wrote 

"The  Naked  Rider"  (70  lines) 

"  The  Wind  at  Fidenae  "  (38  lines) 

"  The  Wild  Mare  "  (32  lines) 

"  A  Dream  at  Ardea  "  (In  Maremma)  215  lines. 

12th.    Wrote  "  La  Velia  "  (38  lines). 


180  WILLIAM   SHARP 

15th.  Agnes  and  Lill,  Charles  Holroyd  and  the  P — s 
and  I  went  to  Tusculum  by  morning  train.  Very 
warm  as  soon  as  we  got  to  Frascati.  Lovely  Tramontana 
day.  Took  a  donkey  to  carry  the  wine  and  provisions :  or 
Lill,  if  necessary.  After  a  long  walk,  lunched  in  the 
Theatre  at  Tusculum.  Wreathed  the  donkey  with  ivy 
and  some  early  blooms,  and  then  I  rode  on  it  on  to  the 
stage,  a  la  Bacchus,  flasks  of  Frascati  under  either  arm. 

Most  glorious  sunset.  The  view  from  the  height  above 
Tusculum  simply  superb,  and  worth  coming  to  see  from 
any  part  of  the  world. 

17th.  Yesterday  was  one  of  the  most  glorious  days 
possible  in  Rome.  Cloudless  sky:  fresh  sweet  breeze: 
deliciously  warm.  Went  with  A.  to  Porto  d'Anzio 
again,  and  walked  along  the  coast  northward.  Sea  un- 
speakably glorious :  blue,  sunlit,  with  great  green  foam- 
crested  waves  breaking  on  the  sands,  and  surging  in 
among  the  hollow  tufa  rocks  and  old  Roman  remains. 
Lay  for  a  long  time  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  Arco  Muto. 
One  of  the  red  letter  days  in  one's  life. 

Stayed  up  all  night  (till  Breakfast)  writing:  then  re- 
vising. Between  8  p.m.  and  4  a.m.  wrote  poem  after  poem 
with  unbroken  eagerness.  The  impulse  was  an  irresisti- 
ble one,  as  I  was  tired  and  not,  at  first,  strongly  inclined 
to  write,  though  no  sooner  had  I  written  the  Italian  "  Ded- 
icatory Lines  "  than  it  all  came  upon  me.  In  all,  besides 
these,  I  wrote  "  Al  Far  della  Notte  "  (31  lines) :  "  Clouds, 
from  the  Agro  Romano  "  (31) :  "  The  Olives  of  Tivoli " 
(30):  "At  Veii"  (86):  "The  Bather"  (68):  "  De  Pro- 
fundis"  (26):  and  "Ultimo  Sospiro  "  (37). 

18th.  Beautiful  day.  Felt  none  the  worse  for  being 
up  all  night.  Wrote  article  on  Ibsen's  '  Rosmersholm ' 
for  Y.  F.  P.    Wrote  "  Spuma  dal  Mare  "  (41  lines). 

In  "  Spuma  dal  Mare  "  I  have  attempted  to  give  some- 
thing of  the  many-coloured  aspects  of  the  sea.  It  is 
absurd  to  keep  on  always  speaking  of  it  as  blue,  or  green, 
or  even  grey.  The  following  portion  is  as  true  as  prac- 
ticable, whatever  other  merits  they  may  have: 


WILLIAM  SHARP 
After  a  pastel  drawing  by  Charles  Ross,  1891 


ROME  181 

Here  the  low  breakers  are  rolling  thro'  shallows, 

Yellow  and  muddied,  the  line  of  topaz 

Ere   cut   from    the   boulder: 

Save  when  the  sunlight  swims  through  them  slantwise, 

When   inward  they   roll, 

Long  billows   of   amber, 

Crown'd  with  pale  yellow 

And  gray-green   spume. 

Here  wan  gray  their  slopes 

Where  the  broken  lights  reach  them. 

Dull  gray  of  pearl,  and  dappled  and  darkling, 

As  when,   'mid   the  high 

Northward  drift  of  the  clouds, 

Sirocco  bloweth 

With  soft  fanning  breath. 

20tl%.  In  morning  wrote  out  Dedicatory  and  other 
Preliminary  Pages,  etc.,  etc.,  for  my  "  Sospiri  di  Roma  " 
and  after  lunch  took  the  complete  MS.  to  Prof.  Garlanda 
of  the  Societa  Laziale,  who  will  take  them  out  to  the 
Establishment  at  Tivoli  to-day.  Holroyd  came  with  final 
proof  of  his  etching  of  me. 

24th.    Wrote  "  The  Shepherd  in  Rome"  (6'6  lines). 

25th.    Wrote  "  Sorgendo  La  Luna  "  (47  11.). 

27th.  Wrote  poem  "  In  July :  on  the  Campagna " 
(26  11.).  Wrote  poem  "August  Afternoon  in  Rome" 
(59  11.). 

Charles  M.  Ross  (Norwegian  painter),  and  Julian  Cor- 
bett  (author  of  "  The  Life  of  Drake  ")  called  on  me  to- 
day. Mr.  Ross  wants  to  paint  me  in  pastel  and  has  asked 
me  to  go  to-morrow  for  that  purpose." 

In  mid-March  I  went  to  Florence  in  advance  of  my 
husband;  and  he  and  Mr.  Corbett  spent  a  few  days  to- 
gether at  the  Albergo  Sybilla  Tivoli — where  their  sitting- 
room  faced  the  Temple  of  Vesta — so  that  he  could  super- 
intend there  the  printing  of  his  "  Sospiri."  The  two 
authors  worked  in  the  morning,  and  took  walks  in  the 
afternoon.    The  Diary  records  one  expedition: 

March  23.  After  lunch  J.  C.  and  I  caught  the  train 
for  Palombaria  Marcellina  meaning  to  ascend  to  Palom- 
bara :  but  we  mistook  the  highest  and  most  isolated  moun- 
tain town,  in  the  Sabines  and  after  two  hours  of  an 


182  WILLIAM   SHARP 

exceedingly  wild  and  rugged  and  sometimes  almost  im- 
possible mule-path,  etc.,  we  reached  the  wonderfully  pic- 
turesque and  interesting  San  Polo  dei  Cavalieri.  Bought 
a  reed  pipe  from  a  shepherd  who  was  playing  a  Ranz  des 
Vaches  among  the  slopes  just  below  San  Polo.  The  medi- 
aBval  castle  in  the  middle  of  the  narrow  crooked  pictur- 
esque streets  very  fine.  Had  some  wine  from  a  comely 
woman  who  lived  in  the  lower  part  of  the  castle.  Then 
we  made  our  way  into  the  Sabines  by  Vicovaro,  and 
Castel  Madama,  and  home  late  to  Tivoli,  very  tired. 

Certain  tales  told  to  him  by  the  Italian  woman,  and  the 
picturesque  town  and  its  surroundings  formed  the  basis 
of  the  story  "  The  Rape  of  the  Sabines  "  which  appeared 
later  in  The  Pagan  Review.  At  the  end  of  March  he  left 
Rome,  to  his  great  regret ;  he  joined  me  at  Pisa  and  thence 
we  journeyed  to  Provence  and  stayed  awhile  at  Aries, 
whence  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier; 

30:  3:  91. 

Gento  Cataeino, 

You  see  I  address  you  a  la  Provengale  already!  We 
left  Italy  last  week,  and  came  to  Provence.  Marseilles, 
I  admit,  seemed  to  me  an  unattractive  place  after  Rome 
— and  indeed  all  of  Provence  we  have  seen  as  yet  is  some- 
what chill  and  barren  after  Italy.  No  doubt  the  charm 
will  grow.  For  one  thing,  Spring  is  very  late  here  this 
year.  .  .  . 

Aries  we  like  much.  It  is  a  quaint  and  pleasant  little 
town:  and  once  I  can  get  my  mind  free  of  those  haunt- 
ing hill-towns  of  the  Sabines  and  Albans  I  love  so  much 
— (is  there  any  hill  range  in  the  world  to  equal  that 
swing  of  the  Apennines  stretching  beyond  Rome  east- 
ward, southward,  and  southwestward?) — I  shall  get  to 
love  it  too,  no  doubt.  But  oh,  Italy,  Italy !  Not  Rome : 
though  Rome  has  an  infinite  charm,  even  now  when  the 
jerry-builder  is  fast  ruining  it :  but  "  greater  Rome,"  the 
Agro  Romano !  When  I  think  of  happy  days  at  the  Lake 
of  Nemi,  high  up  in  the  Albans,  of  Albano,  and  L'Ariccia, 
and  Castel  Gandolfo — of  Tivoli,  and  the  lonely  Monte- 
celli,  and  S.  Polo  dei  Cavalieri,  and  Castel  Madama,  and 


ROME  183 

Anticoli  Corrado,  etc.,  among  the  Sabines — of  the  ever 
new,  mysterious,  fascinating  Campagna,  from  the  Mar- 
emma  on  the  North  to  the  Pontine  Marshes,  my  heart 
is  full  of  longing.  I  love  North  Italy  too,  all  Umbria 
and  Tuscany:  and  to  know  Venice  well  is  to  have  a  secret 
of  perpetual  joy:  and  yet,  the  Agro  Romano!  How  I 
wish  you  could  have  been  there  this  winter  and  spring! 
You  will  find  something  of  my  passion  for  it,  and  of  that 
still  deeper  longing  and  passion  for  the  Beautiful,  in  my 
"  Sospiri  di  Roma,"  which  ought  to  reach  you  before  the 
end  of  April,  or  at  any  rate  early  in  May.  This  very 
day  it  is  being  finally  printed  off  to  the  sound  of  the 
Cascades  of  the  Anio  at  Tivoli,  in  the  Sabines — one  of 
which  turns  the  machinery  of  the  Societa  Laziale's  print- 
ing-works. I  do  hope  the  book  will  appeal  to  you,  as 
there  is  so  much  of  myself  in  it.  No  doubt  it  will  be 
too  frankly  impressionistic  to  suit  some  people,  and  its 
unconventionality  in  form  as  well  as  in  matter  will 
be  a  cause  of  offence  here  and  there.  You  shall  have  one 
of  the  earliest  copies. 

Yesterday  was  a  fortunate  day  for  arrival.  It  was  a 
great  festa,  and  all  the  women  were  out  in  their  refined 
and  picturesque  costumes.  The  Amphitheatre  was  filled, 
tier  upon  tier,  and  full  of  colour  (particularly  owing  to 
some  three  or  four  hundred  Zouaves,  grouped  in  threes 
or  fours  every  here  and  there)  for  the  occasion  of  "  a 
grand  Bull- Fight."  It  was  a  brilliant  and  amusing  scene, 
though  (fortunately)  the  "  fight "  was  of  the  most  tame 
and  harmless  kind:  much  less  dangerous  even  for  the 
most  unwary  of  the  not  very  daring  Arlesians  than  a 
walk  across  the  remoter  parts  of  the  Campagna.  .  .  . 

Letters  from  Mr.  Meredith  and  Miss  Blind,  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  privately  published  volume  of  poems, 
greatly  pleased  their  author: 

Box  Hill,  April  15,  1891. 

Deae  Sharp, 

I  have  sent  a  card  to  the  Grosvenor  Club.  I  have  much 
to  say  for  the  Sospiri,  with  some  criticism.    Impression- 


184  WILLIAM   SHARP 

istic  work  where  the  heart  is  hot  surpasses  all  but  highest 
verse.  When,  mind.  It  can  be  of  that  heat  only  at  inter- 
vals. In  the  *  Wild  Mare  '  you  have  hit  the  mark.  It  is 
an  unrivalled  piece. 

But  you  have  at  times  (I  read  it  so)  insisted  on  your 
impressions.  That  is,  you  have  put  on  your  cap,  sharp- 
ened your  pencil,  and  gone  afield  as  the  Impressionistic 
poet.  Come  and  hear  more.  I  will  give  you  a  Crown 
and  a  bit  of  the  whip — the  smallest  bit. 

Give  my  warm  regards  to  your  wife. 

Yours  ever, 

Geokge  Meredith. 

May  18,  1891. 

Dear  Will^ 

I  got  the  copy  you  sent  me  of  Sospiri  di  Roma.  .  .  . 
Your  nature  feeling  is  always  so  intense  and  genuine  that 
I  would  have  liked  my  own  mood  to  be  more  completely 
in  harmony  with  yours  before  writing  to  you  about  what 
is  evidently  so  spontaneous  an  outcome  of  your  true  self. 
I  should  have  wished  to  identify  myself  with  this  joy 
in  the  beauty  of  the  world  which  bubbles  up  fountain- 
like from  every  one  of  these  sparkling  Roman  transcripts, 
why  called  "  Sospiri "  I  hardly  know.  One  envies  you 
the  ebullient  delight  which  must  have  flooded  your  veins 
before  you  could  write  many  of  these  verses,  notably 
"  Fior  di  Primavera,"  "  Red  Poppies,"  and  "  The  White 
Peacock  " :  the  effect  of  colour  and  movement  produced 
in  these  last  two  seems  to  be  particularly  happy,  as  also 
the  descriptions  of  the  sea  of  roses  in  the  first  which 
vividly  recalled  to  me  the  prodigal  wealth  of  blossom  on 
the  Riviera.  I  thorougiily  agree  with  what  George  Mer- 
edith says  of  the  sketch  of  "  The  Wild  Mare,"  the  lines 
of  which  seem  as  quiveringly  alive  as  the  high  strung 
nerves  of  these  splendid  creatures. 

"  August  Afternoon  in  Rome  "  is  also  an  admirable 
bit  of  impressionism  and,  if  I  remember,  just  that 
effect — 


ROME  185 

Far  in   the  middle-flood,   adrift,  unoar'd, 
A   narrow   boat,    Bwift-moving,   black. 
Follows  the  flowing  wave  like  a  living  thing. 

By  and  by  if  I  should  get  to  some  "  place  of  nestling 
green  for  poets  made  "  I  hope  to  get  more  deeply  into 
the  spirit  of  your  book. 

Come  to  see  me  as  soon  as  ever  you  and  Lill  can  man- 
age it,  either  separately  or  together. 

Always  yours, 

Mathilde  Blind. 

Concerning  certain  criticisms  on  Sospiri  di  Roma  he 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier: 

1st  May,   1891. 

.  .  .  Whether  coming  with  praise  or  with  blame  and 
cast  me  to  the  perdition  of  the  unrighteous,  the  critics 
all  seem  unable  to  take  the  true  standpoint — namely, 
that  of  the  poet.  What  has  he  attempted,  and  how  far 
has  he  succeeded  or  failed  ?  That  is  what  should  concern 
them.  It  is  no  good  to  any  one  or  to  me  to  say  that  I  am 
a  Pagan — that  I  am  "  an  artist  beyond  doubt,  but  one 
without  heed  to  the  cravings  of  the  human  heart :  a  wor- 
shipper of  the  Beautiful,  but  without  religion,  without 
an  ethical  message,  with  nothing  but  a  vain  cry  for  the 
return,  or  it  may  be  the  advent,  of  an  impossible  ideal." 
Equally  absurd  to  complain  that  in  these  "  impressions  " 
I  give  no  direct  "  blood  and  bones  "  for  the  mind  to  gnaw 
at  and  worry  over.  Cannot  they  see  that  all  I  attempt 
to  do  is  to  fashion  anew  something  of  the  lovely  vision 
I  have  seen,  and  that  I  would  as  soon  commit  forgery 
(as  I  told  some  one  recently)  as  add  an  unnecessary  line, 
or  "  play "  to  this  or  that  taste,  this  or  that  critical 
opinion.  The  chief  paper  here  in  Scotland  shakes  its 
head  over  "  the  nude  sensuousness  of  ^  The  Swimmer  of 
Nemi,'  '  The  Naked  Rider,'  '  The  Bather,'  '  Fior  di  Me- 
moria,'  ^  The  Wild  Mare '  (whose  '  fiery  and  almost  sav- 
age realism ! '  it  depreciates — tho'  this  is  the  poem  which 
Meredith  says  is  'bound  to  live')  and  evidently  thinks 


186  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

artists  and  poets  who  see  beautiful  things  and  try  to 
fashion  them  anew  beautifully,  should  be  stamped  out, 
or  at  any  rate  left  severely  alone.  .  .  . 

In  work,  creative  work  above  all,  is  the  sovereign 
remedy  for  all  that  ill  which  no  i^hysician  can  cure :  and 
there  is  a  joy  in  it  which  is  unique  and  invaluable. 

For  a  time,  however,  creative  work  had  to  be  put  aside. 
The  preparation  of  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Joseph 
Severn  was  a  hard  grind  that  lasted  till  mid- August.  At 
Whitby,  on  the  13th,  according  to  his  diary  he  "wrote 
25  pp.  digest  of  Severn's  novel  and  worked  at  other 
things.  Later  I  wrote  the  concluding  pages,  finishing  the 
book  at  2  a.m.  I  can  hardly  believe  that  this  long  delayed 
task  is  now  accomplished.  But  at  last  "Severn"  is 
done ! " 

The  final  revision  occupied  him  till  the  28th  August, 
and  in  order  to  finish  it  before  we  went  abroad  on  the 
27th  he  wrote  "  all  morning  till  1  p.m.  ;  again  from  9  p.m. 
all  night  unbrokenly  till  7  a.m.  Then  read  a  little  to 
rest  my  brain  and  wrote  four  letters.  Had  a  bath  and 
breakfast  and  felt  all  right." 

The  24th  has  the  interesting  entry :  "  Met  old  Charles 
Severn  at  the  Italian  Restaurant  near  Portland  Road 
Station  and  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  He  confirmed  his 
previous  statement  (end  of  September  last  year)  about 
Keats  having  written  "  The  Ode  to  the  Nightingale " 
under  "  The  Spaniards  on  Hampstead  Heath." 

September  found  us  in  Stuttgart  in  order  that  my 
husband  should  collaborate  with  the  American  novelist 
Blanche  Willis  Howard.  The  first  days  were  spent  in 
wandering  about  the  lovely  hillsides  around  the  town, 
which  he  described  to  Mrs.  Janvier: 

Johannes  Steasse  33, 

3:  9:  91. 

...  I  know  that  you  would  revel  in  this  glowing  golden 
heat,  and  in  the  beautiful  vinelands  of  the  South.  South- 
ern Germany  in  the  vintage  season  is  something  to  re- 


EOME  187 

member  with  joy  all  one's  life.  Yesterday  it  seemed  as 
if  the  world  above  were  one  vast  sea  of  deep  blue  wher- 
ever a  great  glowing  wave  of  light  straight  from  the 
heart  of  the  sun  was  flowing  joyously.  I  revel  in  this 
summer  gorgeousness,  and  drink  in  the  hot  breath  of  the 
earth  as  though  it  were  the  breath  of  life.  Words  are 
useless  to  depict  the  splendour  of  colour  everywhere — 
the  glimmer  of  the  golden-green  of  the  vines,  the  im- 
measurable sunfilled  flowers,  the  masses  of  ripening  fruit 
of  all  kinds,  the  hues  on  the  hill-slopes  and  in  the  valleys, 
on  the  houses  and  the  quaint  little  vineyard-cots  with 
their  slanting  red  roofs.  In  the  early  afternoon  I  went 
up  through  the  orchards  and  vineyards  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  Hasenberg.  It  was  a  glory  of  colour.  Nor  have 
I  ever  seen  such  a  lovely  purple  bloom  among  the  green 
branches — like  the  sky  of  f  aerieland — as  in  the  dark-plum 
orchards.  There  was  one  heavily  laden  tree  which  was 
superb  in  its  massy  richness  of  fruit :  it  was  like  a  lovely 
vision  of  those  thunder-clouds  which  come  and  go  in  July 
dawns.  The  bloom  on  the  fruit  was  as  though  the  west 
wind  had  been  unable  to  go  further  and  had  let  its 
velvety  breath  and  wings  fade  away  in  a  soft  visible 
death  or  sleep.  The  only  sounds  were  from  the  myriad 
bees  and  was23S  and  butterflies :  some  peasants  singing 
in  the  valley  as  they  trimmed  the  vines :  and  the  just 
audible  sussurrus  of  the  wind  among  the  highest  pines 
on  the  Hasenberg.  There  was  the  fragrance  of  a  myriad 
odours  from  fruit  and  flower  and  blossom  and  plant  and 
tree  and  fructifying  soil — with  below  all  that  strange 
smell  as  of  the  very  body  of  the  living  breathing  world. 
The  festival  of  colour  was  everywhere.  As  I  passed  a 
cottar's  sloping  bit  of  ground  within  his  vineyards,  I 
saw  some  cabbages  high  up  among  some  trailing  beans, 
which  were  of  the  purest  and  most  delicate  blue,  lying 
there  like  azure  wafts  from  the  morning  sky.  Altogether 
I  felt  electrified  in  mind  and  body.  The  sunflood  intox- 
icated me.  But  the  beauty  of  the  world  is  always  bracing 
— all  beauty  is.  I  seemed  to  inhale  it — to  drink  it  in — to 
absorb  it  at  every  pore — to  become  it — to  become  the 


188  WILLIAM   SHARP 

heart  and  soul  within  it.  And  then  in  the  midst  of  it 
all  came  my  old  savage  longing  for  a  vagrant  life:  for 
freedom  from  the  bondage  we  have  involved  ourselves 
in.  I  suppose  I  was  a  gipsy  once — and  before  that  "  a 
wild  man  o'  the  woods." 

A  terrific  thunderstorm  has  broken  since  I  wrote  the 
above.  I  have  rarely  if  ever  seen  such  continuous  light- 
ning. As  it  cleared,  I  saw  a  remarkably  beautiful  sight. 
In  front  of  my  window  rose  a  low  rainbow,  and  suddenly 
from  the  right  there  was  slung  a  bright  steel-blue  bolt, 
seemingly  hurled  with  intent  right  through  the  arch.  The 
next  moment  the  rainbow  collapsed  in  a  ruin  of  fading 
splendours.  .  .  . 

I  have  had  a  very  varied,  and,  to  use  a  much  abused 
word,  a  very  romantic  life  in  its  external  as  well  as  in 
its  internal  aspects.  Life  is  so  unutterably  precious  that 
I  cannot  but  rejoice  daily  that  I  am  alive :  and  yet  I  have 
no  fear  of,  or  even  regret  at  the  thought  of  death.  .  .  . 
There  are  many  things  far  worse  than  death.  When  it 
comes,  it  comes.  But  meanwhile  we  are  alive.  The 
Death  of  the  power  to  live  is  the  only  death  to  be 
dreaded.  .  .  . 

His  Diary  also  testifies  to  his  exultant  mood: 

Wednesday,  2:9:1891. — Another  glorious  day.  This 
flood  of  sunshine  is  like  new  life :  it  is  new  life.  I  rejoice 
in  the  heat  and  splendour  of  it.  It  seems  to  get  into  the 
heart  and  brain,  and  it  intoxicates  with  a  strange  kind 
of  rapture.  ,  .  .  How  intensely  one  lives  sometimes,  even 
when  there  is  little  apparently  to  call  forth  quintessen- 
tial emotion.  This  afternoon  was  a  holiday  of  the  soul. 
And  yet  how  absolutely  on  such  a  day  one  realises  the 
savage  in  one.  I  suppose  I  was  a  gipsy  once :  a  '  wild 
man '  before :  a  wilder  beast  of  prey  before  that.  We 
all  hark  back  strangely  at  times.  To-day  I  seemed  to 
remember  much.  ,  .  .  ^Vhat  a  year  this  has  been  for  me : 
the  richest  and  most  wonderful  I  have  known.  Were  I 
as  superstitious  as  Polycrates  I  should  surely  sacrifice 


ROME  189 

some  precious  thing  lest  the  vengeful  gods  should  say 
"  Thou  hast  lived  too  fully :  Come !  .  .  . " 

The  following  extracts  from  William's  Diary  indicate 
the  method  of  the  collaboration  used  by  the  two  authors : 

Sunday  6th.  Sept.  1891. — Blanche  Willis  Howard, 
or  rather,  the  Frau  Hof-Arzt  Von  Teuffel,  arrived  last 
night.  She  sent  round  word  that  she  could  conveniently 
receive  me  in  the  afternoon,  but  as  it  was  not  to  have 
our  first  talk-over  about  our  long  projected  joint  novel, 
Elizabeth  came  with  me  so  as  to  make  Frau  Von  T.'s 
acquaintanceship.  .  .  .  She  is  a  charming  woman,  and 
I  like  her  better  than  ever.  As  I  am  here  to  write  a  novel 
in  collaboration  with  her,  and  not  to  fall  in  love,  I  must 
be  on  guard  against  my  too  susceptible  self.  .  .  . 

Monday  7th. — At  3  o'clock  I  went  to  Frau  Von  Teuf- 
fel's,  and  stayed  till  5.45.  We  had  a  long  talk,  and  skir- 
mished admirably — sometimes  "  fluking  "  but  ever  and 
again  taking  our  man:  in  other  words,  we  gained  what 
we  were  after,  to  some  extent — indirectly  as  well  as  di- 
rectly. She  agrees  to  my  proposal  that  we  call  the  book 
A  Fellowe  and  His  Wife.  The  two  chief  personages  are 
to  be  Germans  of  rank,  from  the  Riigen  seaboard.  I  am 
to  be  the  "  faire  wife,"  and  have  decided  to  live  at  Rome, 
and  to  be  a  sculptor  in  ivory,  and  to  have  rooms  in  the 
Palazzo  Malaspina.  Have  not  yet  decided  about  my 
name.  My  favourite  German  name  is  Hedwig,  but  Frau 
Von  T.  objected  that  English  and  American  readers 
would  pronounce  it '  Hed-wig.'  She  suggested  Edla :  but 
that  doesn't  '  fetch '  me.  I  think  Freyda  (or  perhaps 
Olga)  would  suit. 

Tuesday,  8th. — This  morning  I  began  our  novel  A  Fel- 
lowe and  His  Wife.  I  wrote  some  nine  pages  of  MS. 
being  the  whole  of  the  first  letter  written  by  Freia  (or 
Use)  from  Rome. 

Thursday,  10th. — In  the  evening  I  went  round  to 
Morike  Strasse.  We  had  a  long  talk  about  the  book  and 
its  evolution,  and  ultimately  decided  to  attempt  the  still 
more  difiicult  task  of  telling  the  whole  story  in  the  letters 


190  '  EOME 

of  Odo  and  Use  only.  Of  course  this  is  much  more  diffi- 
cult :  but  if  we  can  do  it,  so  much  the  more  credit  to  our 
artistic  skill  and  imaginative  insight.  ...  (It  was  also 
decided  that  Frau  v.  Teuffel  should  write  Odo's  letters, 
and  her  collaborator.  Use's.  In  addition  to  the  novel 
W.  S.  dramatised  the  story  in  a  five-act  play.) 

1st  October,  1891. — "Wrote  to-day  the  long  first  scene 
of  Act  III.  of  A  Fellotve.  In  afternoon  E.  and  I  went 
out  in  the  town.  I  bought  Maurice  Maeterlinck's  La 
Princesse  Maleine  and  Les  Aveugles,  and  in  the  late 
afternoon  read  right  thro'  the  latter  and  skimmed  the 
former.  Some  one  has  been  writing  about  him  recently 
and  comparing  him  to  Webster.  In  method  greatly,  and 
in  manner,  and  even  in  conceptive  imagination,  he  diif  ers 
from  Webster:  but  he  is  his  Cousin-German.  It  is  cer- 
tainly hopelessly  uncritical  to  say  as  Octave  Mirbeau  did 
last  year  in  a  French  paper  or  magazine  that  Maeter- 
linck is  another  Shakespeare.  He  is  not  even  remotely 
Shakespearian.  He  is  a  writer  of  singular  genius ;  and 
I  shall  send  for  everything  he  has  written.  Eeading 
these  things  of  his  excited  me  to  a  high  degree.  It  was 
the  electric  touch  I  needed  to  produce  my  Dramatic  In- 
terludes over  which  I  have  been  brooding.  I  believe  that 
much  of  the  imaginative  writing  of  the  future  will  be 
in  dramatic  prose  of  a  special  kind.  .  .  . 

Friday,  2nd. — I  went  to  bed  last  night  haunted  by  my 
story  "  The  Summons."  To-day  at  10.30  or  nearer  11 
I  began  to  write  it,  and  wrote  without  a  break  till  5.30, 
by  which  time  "  A  Northern  Night,"  as  I  now  call  it, 
was  entirely  finished,  '  asides '  and  all.  Both  there  and 
when  I  issue  the  Dramatic  Interludes  (five  in  all)  I  shall 
send  them  forth  under  my  anagram,  H.  P.  Siwaarmill. 
The  volume  will  be  a  small  one.  The  longest  pieces  will 
be  the  "  Northern  Night,"  and  "  The  Experiment  of 
Melchior  van  Hoek " ;  the  others  will  be  "  The  Con- 
fessor," "  The  Birth  of  a  Soul "  and  "  The  Black  Ma- 
donna." 

Saturday  3rd. — .  .  .  This  late  afternoon  wrote  the 
Dramatic  Study,  "  The  Birth  of  a  Soul."     Though  not 


EOME  191 

'  picturesque '  it  touches  a  deeper  note  than  "  A  North- 
ern Night,"  and  so  is  really  the  more  impressive. 

Tuesday,  6th.  .  .  . — P.  S.  After  writing  this  Entry 
for  Tuesday,  shortly  before  12, 1  began  to  write  the  open- 
ing particulars  of  Scene  II.  of  Act  IV.,  and  went  on  till 
I  finished  the  whole  scene,  shortly  before  2  a.m. 

Wednesday,  7th.  Finished  before  1  a.m.  my  Play,  A 
Fellowe,  by  writing  the  longish  Scene  III.  of  Act  IV. 
Went  out  with  Lill  in  the  afternoon.  The  town  all  draped 
in  black  for  the  death  of  the  King  of  Saxony.  Wrote  to 
Frank  Harris  (from  here,  as  H.  P.  Siwaarmill)  with 
"  The  Birth  of  a  Soul."  .  .  . 

Friday,  9th. — In  late  evening  thought  out  (but  only  so 
far  as  leading  lines  and  general  drift)  the  drama  "  The 
Gipsy-Christ."  (Being  The  Passion  of  Manuel  van 
Hoek).  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XII 

WALT   WHITMAN 

The  Pagan  Review 

The  brilliant  summer  was  followed  by  a  damp  and 
foggy  autumn.  My  husband's  depression  increased  with 
the  varying  of  the  year.  While  I  was  on  a  I'isit  to  my 
mother  he  wrote  to  me,  after  seeing  me  in  the  morning : 

Gbosvenor  Club,  Nov.  9th,  1891. 

"...  I  have  been  here  all  day  and  have  enjoyed  the 
bodily  rest,  the  inner  quietude,  and,  latterly,  a  certain 
mental  uplifting.  But  at  first  I  was  deep  down  in  the 
blues.  Anything  like  the  appalling  gloom  between  two 
and  three-thirty !  I  could  scarcely  read,  or  do  anything 
but  watch  it  with  a  kind  of  fascinated  horror.  It  is  going 
down  to  the  grave  indeed  to  be  submerged  in  that  hideous 
pall.  ...  As  soon  as  I  can  make  enough  by  fiction  or 
the  drama  to  depend  thereon  we'll  leave  this  atmosphere 
of  fog  and  this  environment  of  deadening,  crushing,  par- 
alysing, death-in-life  respectability.  Circumstances  make 
London  thus  for  us :  for  me  at  least — for  of  course  we 
carry  our  true  atmosphere  in  ourselves — and  places  and 
towns  are,  in  a  general  sense,  mere  accidents.  .  .  . 

I  have  read  to-day  Edmond  Scherer's  Essais  on  Eng. 
Literature:  very  able  though  not  brilliant — reread  the 
best  portions  of  Jules  Breton's  delightful  autobiography, 
which  I  liked  so  much  last  year  ...  all  George  Moore's 
New  Novel,  Vain  Fortune. 

I  had  also  a  pleasant  hour  or  so  dipping  into  Ben 
Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  other  old  drama- 
tists :  refreshed  my  forgotten  acquaintanceship  with  that 
silly  drama  "  Firmilian  " :  and,  generally,  enjoyed  an  ir- 

192 


WALT   WHITMAN  193 

responsible  ramble  thro'  whatever  came  to  hand.  I  am 
now  all  right  again  and  send  you  this  little  breath,  this 
little  '  Sospiro  di  Guglielmo,'  to  give  you,  if  perchance 
you  need  it,  a  tonic  stimulus.    No,  you  don't  need  it !  " 

His  health  was  so  seriously  affected  by  the  fogs  that 
it  became  imperative  that  he  should  get  into  purer  air 
so  he  decided  to  fulfil  his  intention  of  going  to  New 
York  even  though  he  had  been  forced  to  relinquish  all 
ideas  of  lecturing.  There  were  various  publishing  mat- 
ters to  attend  to,  and  many  friends  to  visit.  In  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Janvier,  announcing  his  projected  visit,  he  tells 
her  of  the  particular  work  he  had  on  hand: 

"  You  will  be  the  first  to  hear  my  new  imaginative 
work.  Although  in  a  new  method,  it  is  inherently  more 
akin  to  "  Romantic  Ballads  "  than  to  "  Sospiri,"  but  it  is 
intense  dramatic  prose.  There  is  one  in  particular  I 
wish  to  read  to  you — three  weeks  from  now."  And  he 
adds,  "  Do  you  not  long  for  the  warm  days — for  the 
beautiful  living  pulsing  South'?  This  fierce  cold  and 
gloom  is  mentally  benumbing.  .  .  .  Yes  you  are  right: 
there  are  few  women  and  perhaps  fewer  men  who  have 
the  passion  of  Beauty — of  the  thrilling  ecstasy  of  life." 

During  his  short  stay  in  New  York  he  was  made  the 
welcome  guest  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clarence  Stedman;  and 
he  delighted  in  this  opportunity  of  again  meeting  his 
good  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Stoddart,  Mr.  AJden, 
Mr.  Howells,  etc.  But  his  chief  interest  was  a  memor- 
able visit  to  Walt  Whitman,  in  whose  fearless  independ- 
ent, mental  outlook,  and  joy  in  life,  in  whose  vigorous  in- 
dividual verse,  he  had  found  incentive  and  refreshment. 
Armed  with  an  introduction  from  Mr.  Stedman  he  pil- 
grimaged to  Camden,  New  Jersey,  on  January  23rd,  and 
found  the  veteran  poet  in  bed  propped  up  with  pillows, 
very  feeble,  but  bright-eyed  and  mentally  alert.  William 
described  the  visit  in  a  letter  to  me : 

"  During  a  memorable  talk  on  the  literature  of  the  two 
countries  past  and  to  come,  the  conversation  turned  upon 
a  vivid  episode.    '  That  was  when  you  were  young? '  I 


194  WILLIAM   SHARP 

asked.  The  patriarchal  old  poet — who  lay  in  his  narrow 
bed,  with  his  white  beard,  white  locks,  and  ashy-grey  face 
in  vague  relief,  in  the  afternoon  light,  against  the  white 
pillows  and  coverlet — looked  at  me  before  he  answered, 
with  that  half  audacious,  wholly  winsome  glance  so  char- 
acteristic of  him,  ^  Now,  just  you  tell  me  when  you  think 
that  was ! ' 

"  Then,  with  sudden  energy,  and  without  waiting  for 
a  reply,  he  added,  '  Young?  I'm  as  young  now  as  I  was 
then !  "What's  this  grey  tangle '  (and  as  he  spoke  he  gave 
his  straggling  beard  an  impatient  toss), '  and  this  decrepit 
old  body  got  to  do  with  that,  eh?  I  never  felt  younger, 
and  I'm  glad  of  it — against  what's  coming  along.  That's 
the  best  way  to  shift  camp,  eh?  That's  what  I  call 
Youth!'" 

When  the  younger  man  bade  him  farewell  Whitman 
gave  him  a  message  to  take  back  with  him  across  the 
seas.  "  He  said  to  me  with  halting  breath :  '  W^illiam 
Sharp  when  you  go  back  to  England,  tell  those  friends  of 
whom  you  have  been  speaking,  and  all  others  whom  you 
may  know  and  I  do  not  that  words  fail  me  to  express  my 
deep  gratitude  to  them  for  sympathy  and  aid  truly 
enough  beyond  acknowledgment.  Good-bye  to  you  and 
to  them — the  last  greetings  of  a  tired  old  poet.' " 

The  impression  made  on  my  husband,  by  the  fearless 
serene  attitude  of  the  great  poet  found  expression  in  the 
few  lines  that  flashed  into  his  mind,  when  on  March  29th 
he  read  in  a  London  evening  paper  of  the  death  of  Walt 
Whitman : 

IN    MEMOKIAJVI 

He   laughed  at  Life's  Sunset-Gates 

With   vanishing   breath, 
Glad  soul,  who  went  with  the   sun 

To   the   Sunrise  of   death. 

While  William  was  in  New  York  Mr.  Stedman  was 
asked  by  Mr.  J.  W.  Young  to  approach  his  guest  with  a  re- 
quest that  he  should  "  lecture  "  at  Harvard  upon  a  sub- 
ject of  contemporary  Literature,     "  Quite  a  number  of 


WALT   WHITMAN  195 

Harvard  men  are  anxious  to  see  and  hear  Mr.  Sharp  if 
he  will  consent  to  come  to  Cambridge." 

It  was  with  genuine  regret  that,  owing  to  his  doctor's 
strict  prohibition,  William  felt  himself  obliged  to  refuse 
this  flattering  request.  He  had  also  been  asked  by  Mr. 
Palmer  "  the  leading  theatrical  Boss  in  the  States  to  sell 
to  him  the  rights  of  my  play  on  '■  A  Fellowe  and  his 
Wife,' "  a  proposal  which  he  declined. 

On  his  return  to  England  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Janvier : 

"  Deab  Old  Man, 

"  I  have  read  your  stories  (as  I  wrote  the  other  day) 
with  particular  pleasure,  apart  from  personal  associa- 
tions. You  have  a  delicate  and  delightful  touch  that  is 
quite  your  own,  and  all  in  all  I  for  my  part  fully  endorse 
what  Mr.  Howells  wrote  about  you  recently  in  Harpers' 
and  said  as  emphatically  in  private.  So — amico  caro — 
"  go  in  and  win !  " 

I  am  settling  down  in  London  for  a  time,  and  am  more 
content  to  abide  awhile  now  that  the  writing  mood  is  at 
last  upon  me  again — and  strong  at  that ! 

I  have  not  yet  put  my  hand  to  any  of  the  commissioned 
stories  I  must  soon  turn  to — but  tell  la  sposa  that  I  have 
finished  my  "  Dramatic  Vistas  "  (two  or  three  of  which 
I  read  to  her),  and  even  venture  to  look  with  a  certain 
half-content  upon  the  last  of  the  series — "  The  Lute- 
Player  " — which  has  been  haunting  me  steadily  since  last 
October,  but  which  I  could  not  express  aright  till  the 
other  day.  ..." 

The  immediate  outcome  of  his  visit  to  America  was  the 
publication,  by  Messrs.  Chas.  Webster  &  Co.,  of  his  Ro- 
mantic Ballads  and  Sospiri  di  Roma  in  one  volume  en- 
titled Flower  0'  the  Vine.  It  was  prefaced  by  a  flatter- 
ing Introduction  by  Mr.  Janvier,  to  whom  the  author 
wrote  in  acknowledgment : 

Paris,  23d  April,  1892. 

.  .  .  Many  thanks  for  your  letter,  my  dear  fellow,  and 
for  the  "  Introduction,"  which  I  have  just  read.  I  thank 
you  most  heartily  for  what  you  say  there,  which  seems 


196  WILLIAM   SHARP 

to  me,  moreover,  if  I  may  say  so,  at  once  generous,  fit- 
tingly reserved,  and  likely  to  win  attention.  You  yourself 
occupy  such  a  high  place  in  Letters  oversea  that  such  a 
recommendation  of  my  verse  cannot  but  result  to  my 
weal.  I  have  been  so  deep  in  work  and  engagements,  that 
I  have  been  unable  to  attend  to  any  correspondence  of 
late — and  have,  I  fear,  behaved  somewhat  churlishly  to 
friends  across  the  water,  and  particularly  to  my  dear 
friends  at  27th  Avenue.  But  now  the  pressure  of  work  is 
over  for  the  moment:  my  London  engagements  or  their 
ghosts  are  vainly  calling  to  me  d'Outre-Manche :  I  am 
keeping  down  my  too  cosmopolitan  acquaintanceship  in 
Paris  to  the  narrowest  limit :  and  on  and  after  the  second 
of  May  am  going  to  reform  and  remain  reformed.  If  you 
don't  object  to  a  little  "  roughing,"  you  would  enjoy  being 
with  me  and  mes  camarades  this  coming  week.  We  like 
extremes,  so  after  a  week  or  so  of  the  somewhat  feverish 
Bohemianism  of  literary  and  artistic  Paris,  we  shall  be 
happy  at  our  '  gipsy '  encampment  in  the  Forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau  (at  a  remote  and  rarely  visited  but  lovely  and 
romantic  spot  between  the  Gorge  de  Franchard  and  the 
Gorge  d'Apremont).  Spring  is  now  here  in  all  her 
beauty:  and  there  is  a  divine  shimmer  of  green  every- 
where. Paris  itself  is  ew  fete  with  her  vividly  emerald 
lines  and  sycamores,  and  the  white  and  red  spires  of  the 
chestnuts  must  make  the  soul  of  the  west  wind  that  is 
now  blowing  rejoice  with  gladness.  The  Seine  itself  is 
of  a  paler  green  than  usual,  and  is  suggestive  of  those 
apple-hued  canals  and  conduits  of  Flanders  and  by  the 
'  dead  cities  '  of  north-east  Holland.  I  forget  if  you  know 
Paris — but  there  is  one  of  its  many  fountains  that  has 
an  endless  charm  for  me :  that  across  the  Seine,  between 
the  Quai  des  Grands  Augustins  and  the  Bid.  St.  Germain 
— the  Fontaine  St.  Michel — I  stood  watching  the  foam- 
ing surge  and  splash  of  it  for  some  time  yesterday,  and 
the  pearl-grey  and  purple-hued  doves  that  flew  this  way 
and  that  through  the  sunlit  spray.  It  brought,  as  it 
always  does,  many  memories  of  beloved  Eome  and  Italy 
back  to  me.    I  turned — and  saw  Paul  Verlaine  beside  me : 


WALT   WHITMAN  197 

and  I  was  in  Paris  again,  the  Paris  of  Paris,  the  Aspasia 
of  the  cities  of  the  World,  the  only  city  whom  one  loves 
and  worships  (and  is  betrayed  by)  as  a  woman.  Then 
I  went  round  to  Leon  Vanier's,  where  there  were  many 
of  les  Jeunes — Jean  Moreas,  Maurice  Barres,  Cazals, 
Eenard,  Eugene  Holland,  and  others  (including  your 
namesake,  Janvier).  To-night  I  ought  to  go  to  the 
weekly  gathering  of  a  large  number  of  les  Jeunes  at  the 
Cafe  du  Soleil  d'Or,  that  favourite  meeting  place  now  of 
les  decadents,  les  symholistcs,  and  les  everything  else. 
But  I  can't  withstand  this  flooding  sunshine,  and  sweet 
wind,  and  spraying  of  waters,  and  toss-toss  and  shimmer- 
shimmer  of  blossoms  and  leaves ;  so  Pll  probably  be  off. 
This  won't  be  off  if  I  don't  shut  up  in  a  double  sense. 
My  love  to  *  Kathia '  and  to  you,  dear  fellow  Pagans. 

Ever  yours  rejoicingly, 

William  Sharp. 

Tell  K.  that  when  I  have  *  reformed '  I'll  write  to  her. 
Don't  let  her  be  impertinent,  and  say  that  this  promise 
will  be  fulfilled  ad  Grcscas  Kalendas! 

P.  S.    Here  are  my  proposed  '  coming-movements.' 

(1)  Lill  joins  me  in  Paris  about  10  days  hence,  and 
remains  to  see  the  two  Salons,  etc. 

(2)  From  the  middle  of  May  till  the  middle  (14th)  of 
July  we  shall  be  in  London. 

(3)  Then  Lill  goes  with  friends  to  Germany,  to  Bay- 
reuth  (for  Wagnerian  joys)  and  I  go  afoot  and  aboat 
among  the  lochs  and  isles  and  hills  of  the  western  Scot- 
tish Highlands. 

(4)  We  meet  again  in  Stirling  or  Edinburgh,  early  in 
August — and  then,  having  purchased  or  hired  a  service- 
able if  not  a  prancing  steed,  we  go  off  for  three  weeks 
vagabondage.  The  steed  is  for  Lill  and  our  small  bag- 
gage and  a  little  tent.  We'll  sometimes  sleep  out :  some- 
times at  inns,  or  in  the  fern  in  Highlander's  cottages. 
Thereafter  I  shall  again  go  off  by  myself  to  the  extreme 
west  "  where  joy  and  melancholy  are  one,  and  where  youth 
and  age  are  twins  "  as  the  Gaelic  poet  says. 


198  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

(5)  The  rest  of  September  visiting  in  Scotland. 

(6)  Part  of  October  in  London  then  (0  Glad  Tidings) 

(7)  Off  for  6  months  to  the  South:  first  to  the  Greek 
side  of  Sicily:  then  to  Rome  (about  Xmas)  for  the  Spring. 
Finally :  a  Poor-house  in  London. 

The  reply  came  swiftly: 

Nbjw  York,  6:  5:  92. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

Your  letter  of  April  3rd  is  like  a  stirring  fresh  wind. 
The  vigour  of  it  is  delightful,  and  a  little  surprising,  con- 
sidering what  you  had  been  about.  I  will  not  cast  stones 
at  you — and,  if  you  ran  on  schedule  time,  you  have  been 
reformed  for  four  days.  Your  announcement  that  you 
intend  to  stay  reformed  is  fine  in  its  way.  What  a  noble 
imagination  you  have!  I  am  glad  that  you  tolerate  my 
*  introduction.'  As  Kate  wrote  you,  I  was  very  wretched 
— unluckily  for  you — when  it  was  written.  I  wish  that 
it  were  better  in  itself  and  more  worthy  of  you.  But  the 
milk  is  spilled.  The  book  will  look  very  well,  I  think. 
.  .  .  Your  programme  for  the  ensuing  year  fills  me  with 
longing.  Even  the  London  poorhouse  at  the  end  of  it 
don't  alarm  me.  Colonel  Newcome  was  brought  up  in  a 
poorhouse — or  a  place  of  that  nature ;  and,  even  without 
such  a  precedent  I  should  be  willing  to  go  to  a  poor-house 
for  a  while  after  such  a  glorious  year.  Joy  and  good 
luck  attend  you,  my  dear  fellow,  as  you  go  upon  your 
gay  way !  .  .  . 

Always  yours, 

T.  A.  J. 

A  Felloive  and  his  Wife  had  in  the  early  spring  been 
published  in  America  and  England,  and  also  in  the 
Tauchnitz  Collection,  and  had  a  flattering  reception  in 
both  countries.  It  had  been  preceded  in  February  by  the 
Life  and  Letters  of  Joseph  Severn  published  by  Messrs. 
Sampson  Low  &  Co. 

Among  various  articles  written  during  the  early  sum- 
mer for  the  Academy  were  one  on  Philip  Marston,  and 
one  on  Maeterlinck;   and  in  the   July   number  of  the 


WALT   WHITMAN  199 

Forum  was  an  appreciation  of  Thomas  Hardy — to  whom 
he  had  made  a  flying  visit  in  March. 

In  acknowledgment  he  received  the  following  note  from 
the  novelist: 

Max  Gate,  Dobchestee, 

July,  1892. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

It  did  give  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  to  read  the 
article  in  the  Forum,  and  what  particularly  struck  me 
was  your  power  of  grasping  the  characteristics  of  this 
district  and  people  in  a  few  hours  visit,  during  which, 
so  far  as  I  could  see,  you  were  not  observing  anything. 
I  wish  the  execution  of  the  novels  better  justified  the 
generous  view  you  take. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Thomas  Hardy. 

Our  delightful  plans  for  the  autumn  were  not  carried 
out ;  for,  during  a  visit  to  the  art  critic,  J.  Stanley  Little, 
at  Eudgwick,  Sussex,  my  husband  saw  a  little  cottage 
which  attracted  him  and  we  decided  to  take  it  as  a  pied- 
d-terre.  Pending  negotiations  we  stayed  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Caird  at  Northbrook,  Micheldever,  where  W.  S.  be- 
gan to  plan  out  the  scheme  of  a  new  quarterly  Review 
that  was  "  to  be  the  expression  of  a  keen  pagan  delight 
in  nature."    I  quote  from  his  Diary : 

"  June  2nd,  1892.  In  early  forenoon,  after  some  pleas- 
ant dawdling,  began  to  write  the  Italian  story,  "  The 
Rape  of  the  Sabines,"  which  I  shall  print  in  the  first 
instance  in  my  projected  White  Revieiv  as  by  James 
Marazion.  After  tea  wrote  about  a  page  or  so  more  of 
story.  Then  went  a  walk  up  to  One-Tree-Hill.  Saw  sev- 
eral hares.  The  Cuckoo  was  calling  till  after  9  o'clock. 
Noticed  that  the  large  white  moths  fluttered  a  long  time 
in  one  spot  above  the  corn.  Wild  pigeons  go  to  roost 
sooner  than  rooks,  apparently.  Got  back  about  9.30,  and 
then  finished  "  The  Rape  of  the  Sabines  "  (about  4,500 
words). 


200  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

''Friday  3rd.  After  breakfast  went  for  a  brisk  walk 
of  over  four  miles.  Then  worked,  slowly,  till  lunch,  at 
opening  of  "  The  Pagans "  (afterwards  to  be  called 
"Good-Bye,  my  Fancy").  Then  walked  to  the  station 
by  the  fields  and  back  by  the  road  (another  4  miles). 
Then  worked  about  an  hour  more  on  "  The  Pagans." 
Have  done  to-day,  in  all,  from  1,200  to  1,500  words  of  it. 
AVhile  walking  in  the  afternoon  thought  out  "  The  Oread  " 
and  also  the  part  of  it  which  I  shall  use  in  the  White 
Review  by  Charles  Verlayne. 

Saty  4th.  Did  rest  of  "  The  Pagans."  In  afternoon 
did  first  part  of  "  The  Oread." 

Sunday  5th.     Finished  "  Oread." 

Tuesday  7th.  Went  down  to  Rudgwick,  Sussex,  by 
appointment,  and  agreed  to  take  the  cottage  on  a  3-years' 
lease." 

Regretfully  the  wanderings  in  the  Highlands  had  to 
be  postponed  although  the  projector  of  the  Review  went 
for  a  time  to  Loch  Goil  with  a  friend  and  I  to  Bayreuth. 
In  August  we  settled  in  the  little  eight-roomed  cottage, 
near  Rudgwick,  with  a  little  porch,  an  orchard  and  gar- 
den, and  small  lawn  with  a  chestnut  tree  in  its  midst. 
We  remained  at  Phenice  Croft  two  years  and  took  much 
pleasure  in  the  little  green  enclosure  that  was  our  own. 
The  views  from  it  were  not  extensive.  A  stretch  of 
fields  and  trees  lay  in  front  of  the  house,  and  from  the 
side  lawn  we  could  see  an  old  mill  whose  red  brick  roof 
had  been  weathered  to  picturesque  shades  of  green. 
Phenice  Croft  stood  at  the  edge  of  a  little  hamlet  called 
Buck's  Green,  and  across  the  road  from  our  garden  gate 
stood  the  one  shop  flanked  by  a  magnificent  poplar  tree, 
that  made  a  landmark  however  far  we  might  wander. 
It  was  a  perpetual  delight  to  us.  William  Sharp  settled 
down  at  once  to  the  production  of  his  quarterly  to  be 
called,  finally.  The  Pagan  Review,  edited  by  himself  as 
W.  H.  Brooks.  As  he  had  no  contributors,  for  he  realised 
he  would  have  to  attract  them,  he  himself  wrote  the  whole 
of  the  Contents  under  various  pseudonyms.    It  was  pub- 


WALT   WHITMAN  201 

lished  on  August  15th,  1892;  the  cover  bore  the  motto 
"  Sic  transit  gloria  Grundi  "  and  this  list  of  contents : 

The  Black  Madonna By  W.  S.  Fanshawe 

[This  dramatic  Interlude  was  afterwards  included  in  Vistas.} 

The  Coming  of  Love By  George  Gascoign 

[Republished  posthumouely  in  Songs  Old  and  New.] 

The  Pagans :  a  Romance By  William  Dreeme 

[Never  finished.] 

An  Untold  Story By  Lionel  Wingrave 

[Sonnets  afterwards  printed  in  Bongs  Old  and  New.} 

The  Rape  of  the  Salines By  James  Marazion 

The  Oread By  Charles  Verlayne 

Dionysos  in  India By  William  WindoTer 

Contemporary  Record. 
Editorial. 

The  Editorial  announced  a  promised  article  on  "  The 
New  Paganism  "  from  the  pen  of  H.  P.  Siwaarmill,  but 
it  was  never  written. 

As  the  Foreword  gives  an  idea,  not  only  of  the  Editor's 
project,  but  also  of  his  mental  attitude  at  that  moment — 
a  sheer  revelling  in  the  beauty  of  objective  life  and  nature, 
while  he  rode  for  a  brief  time  on  the  crest  of  the  wave 
of  health  and  exuberant  spirits  that  had  come  to  him  in 
Italy  after  his  long  illness  and  convalescence — I  reprint 
it  in  its  entirety. 

Editorial  prefaces  to  new  magazines  generally  lay  great  stress  on  the 
effort  of  the  directorate,  and  all  concerned,  to  make  the  forthcoming  peri- 
odical popular. 

We  have  no  such  expectation:  not  even,  it  may  be  added,  any  such 
intention.  We  aim  at  thorough-going  unpopularity:  and  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that,  with  the  blessed  who  expect  little,  we  shall  not  be 
disappointed. 

In  the  first  place.  The  Pagan  Review  is  frankly  pagan:  pagan  in  senti- 
ment, pagan  in  convictions,  pagan  in  outlook.  This  being  so,  it  is  a 
magazine  only  for  those  who,  with  Mr.  George  Meredith,  can  exclaim  in 
all  sincerity — 

"  0  sir,  the  truth,  the  truth !  is't  in  the  skies. 
Or  in  the  grass,  or  in  this  heart  of  ours- 
But  O,  the  truth,  the  truth!   .  .  ."— 


202  WILLIAM   SHARP 

and  at  the  same  time,  and  with  the  same  author,  are  not  unready  to  admit 
that  truth  to  life,  external  and  internal,  very  often 

"...  is  not  meat 
For  little  people  or  for  fools." 

To  quote  from  Mr.  Meredith  once  more: 

"...  these  things  are  life: 
And  life,  they  say,  is  worthy  of  the  Muse." 

But  we  are  well  aware  that  this  is  just  what  "  they  "  don't  say.  "  They," 
"  the  general  public,"  care  very  little  about  the  "  Muse  "  at  all ;  and  the 
one  thing  they  never  advocate  or  wish  is  that  the  "  Muse  "  should  be  so 
indiscreet  as  to  really  withdraw  from  life  the  approved  veils  of  Con- 
vention. 

Nevertheless,  we  believe  that  there  is  a  by  no  means  numerically 
insignificant  public  to  whom  The  Pagan  Review  may  appeal;  though  our 
paramount  difficulty  will  be  to  reach  those  who,  owing  to  various  circum- 
stances, are  out  of  the  way  of  hearing  aught  concerning  the  most  recent 
developments   in   the  world   of   letters. 

*    * 

The  Pagan  Review  conveys,  or  is  meant  to  convey,  a  good  deal  by  its 
title.  The  new  paganism  is  a  potent  leaven  in  the  yeast  of  the  "  younger 
generation,"  without  as  yet  having  gained  due  recognition,  or  even  any 
sufficiently  apt  and  modern  name,  any  scientific  designation.  The  "  new 
paganism,"  the  "  modern  epicureanism,"  and  kindred  appellations,  are 
more  or  less  misleading.  Yet,  with  most  of  us,  there  is  a  fairly  definite 
idea  of  what  we  signify  thereby.  The  religion  of  our  forefathers  has  not 
only  ceased  for  us  personally,  but  is  no  longer  in  any  vital  and  general 
sense  a  sovereign  power  in  the  realm.  It  is  still  fruitful  of  vast  good, 
but  it  is  none  the  less  a  power  that  was,  rather  than  a  power  that  is. 
The  ideals  of  our  forefathers  are  not  our  ideals,  except  where  the  acci- 
dents of  time  and  change  can  work  no  havoc.  A  new  epoch  is  about  to 
be  inaugurated,  is,  indeed,  in  many  respects,  already  begun;  a  new  epoch 
in  civil  law,  in  international  comity,  in  what,  vast  and  complex  though  the 
issues  be,  may  be  called  Human  Economy.  The  long  half-acknowledged, 
half-denied  duel  between  Man  and  Woman  is  to  cease,  neither  through 
the  victory  of  hereditary  overlordship  nor  the  triumph  of  the  far  more 
deft  and  subtle  if  less  potent  weapons  of  the  weaker,  but  through  a  frank 
recognition  of  copartnery.  This  new  comradeship  will  be  not  less  romantic, 
less  inspiring,  less  worthy  of  the  chivalrous  extremes  of  life  and  death, 
than  the  old  system  of  overlord  and  bondager,  while  it  will  open  perspec- 
tives of  a  new-rejoicing  humanity,  the  most  fleeting  glimpses  of  which 
now  make  the  hearts  of  true  men  and  women  beat  with  gladness.  Far 
from  wishing  to  disintegrate,  degrade,  abolish  marriage,  the  "  new  pagan- 
ism "  would  fain  see  that  sexual  union  become  the  flower  of  human  life. 
But,  first,  the  rubbish  must  be  cleared  away;  the  anomalies  must  be 
replaced   by   just   inter-relations;    the   sacredness   of   the    individual   must 


WALT   WHITMAN  203 

be  recognised;  and  women  no  longer  have  to  look  upon  men  as  usurpers, 
men  no  longer  to  regard  women  as  spiritual  foreigners. 

*  * 

These  remarks,  however,  must  not  be  taken  too  literally  as  indicative 
of  the  literary  aspects  of  The  Pagan  Review.  Opinions  are  one  thing, 
the  expression  of  them  another,  and  the  transformation  or  reincarnation 
of  them  through  indirect  presentment  another  still. 

This  magazine  is  to  be  a  purely  literary,  not  a  philosophical,  partisan, 
or  propagandist  periodical.  We  are  concerned  here  with  the  new  present- 
ment of  things  rather  than  with  the  phenomena  of  change  and  growth 
themselves.  Our  vocation,  in  a  word,  is  to  give  artistic  expression  to  the 
artistic  "  inwardness "  of  the  new  paganism ;  and  we  voluntarily  turn 
aside  here  from  such  avocations  as  chronicling  every  ebb  and  flow  of 
thought,  speculating  upon  every  fresh  surprising  derelict  upon  the  ocean 
of  man's  mind,  or  expounding  well  or  ill  the  new  ethic.  If  those  who 
sneer  at  the  rallying  cry,  "  Art  for  Art's  sake,"  laugh  at  our  efforts,  we 
are  well  content;  for  even  the  lungs  of  donkeys  are  strengthened  by  much 
braying.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  those  who,  by  vain  pretensions  and  para- 
doxical clamour,  degrade  Art  by  making  her  merely  the  more  or  less 
seductive  panoply  of  mental  poverty  and  spiritual  barrenness,  care  to  do 
a  grievous  wrong  by  openly  and  blatantly  siding  with  us,  we  are  still 
content;  for  we  recognise  that  spiritual  byways  and  mental  sewers  relieve 
the  Commonwealth  of  much  that  is  unseemly  and  might  breed  contagion. 
The  Pagan  Review,  in  a  word,  is  to  be  a  mouthpiece — we  are  genuinely 
modest  enough  to  disavow  the  definite  article — of  the  younger  generation, 
of  the  new  pagan  sentiment,  rather,  of  the  younger  generation.  In  its 
pages  there  will  be  found  a  free  exposition  of  the  myriad  aspects  of  life, 
in  each  instance  as  adequately  as  possible  reflective  of  the  mind  and 
literary  temperament  of  the  writer.  The  pass-phrase  of  the  new  paganism 
is  ours:  Sic  transit  gloria  Grundi.  The  supreme  interest  of  Man  is — 
Woman:  and  the  most  profound  and  fascinating  problem  to  Woman  is, 
Man.  This  being  so,  and  quite  unquestionably  so  with  all  the  male  and 
female  pagans  of  our  acquaintance,  it  is  natural  that  literature  dominated 
by  the  various  forces  of  the  sexual  emotion  should  prevail.  Yet,  though 
paramount  in  attraction,  it  is,  after  all,  but  one  among  the  many  motive 
forces  of  life;  so  we  will  hope  not  to  fall  into  the  error  of  some  of  our 
French  confreres  and  be  persistently  and  even  supernaturally  awake  to 
one  functional  activity  and  blind  to  the  general  life  and  interest  of  the 
commonwealth  of  soul  and  body.  It  is  Life  that  we  preach,  if  perforce 
we  must  be  taken  as  preachers  at  all;  Life  to  the  full,  in  all  its  mani- 
festations, in  its  heights  and  depths,  precious  to  the  uttermost  moment, 
not  to  be  bartered  even  when  maimed  and  weary.  For  here,  at  any  rate, 
we  are  alive;  and  then,  alas,  after  all, — 

"  how  few  Junes 
Will  heat  our  pulses  quicker  ..." 

*  * 

"  Much  cry  for  little  wool,"  some  will  exclaim.  It  may  be  so.  When- 
ever did  a  first  number  of  a  new  magazine  fulfil  all  its  editor's  dreams 


204  WILLIAM    SHARP 

or   even   intentions?     "Well,   we   must   make   the  best   of   it,   I   suppose. 

'Tis  nater,  after  all,  and  what  pleases  God,"  as  Mrs.  Durbeyfield  says  in 

"  Tess  of  the  Durbervilles." 

* 
*    * 

Have  you  read  that  charming  roman  d  quatre,  the  Croix  de  Bernyl 
If  so,  you  will  recollect  the  following  words  of  Edgar  de  Meilhan  (alias 
Theophile  Gautier),  which  I  ("I"  standing  for  editor,  and  associates, 
and  pagans  in  general)  now  quote  for  the  delectation  of  all  readers,  ad- 
versely minded  or  generously  inclined,  or  dubious  as  to  our  real  intent — 
with  blithe  hopes  that  they  may  be  the  happier  therefor:  "Frankly,  I  am 
in  earnest  this  time.  Order  me  a  dove-coloured  vest,  apple-green  trousers, 
a  pouch,  a  crook;  in  short,  the  entire  outfit  of  a  Lignon  Shepherd.  I 
shall  have  a  lamb  washed  to  complete  the  pastoral." 

This  is  "the  lamb." 

The  Editob. 

The  Review  was  well  subscribed  for,  and  many  letters 
came  to  the  Editor  and  his  secretary  (myself)  that 
were  a  source  of  interest  and  amusement.  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Whiteing — who  knew  the  secret  of  the  Editorship 
wrote :  "  I  want  to  subscribe  to  The  Pagan  Review  if  you 
will  let  me  know  to  whom  to  send  my  abonnement  for  the 
half  year.  I  think,  you  know,  you  will  have  to  put  some 
more  clothes  on  before  the  end  of  the  year.  You  are 
certainly  the  liveliest  and  most  independent  little  devil 
of  a  review  I  ever  saw  in  a  first  number." 

The  Editor,  however,  swiftly  realised  that  there  could 
be  no  continuance  of  the  Review.  Not  only  could  he  not 
repeat  such  a  tour  de  force,  and  he  realised  that  for  sev- 
eral numbers  he  would  have  to  provide  the  larger  portion 
of  the  material — but  the  one  number  had  served  its  pur- 
pose, as  far  as  he  was  concerned  for  by  means  of  it  he 
had  exhausted  a  transition  phase  that  had  passed  to  give 
way  to  the  expression  of  his  more  permanent  self. 

To  Thomas  A.  Janvier  the  Editor  wrote : 

RuDGWicK,  Sussex. 
Dear  Mr.  Janvier, 

For  though  we  are  strangers  in  a  sense  I  seem  to  know 
you  well  through  our  friend  in  common,  Mr.  William 
Sharp ! 


WALT   WHITMAN  205 

I  write  to  let  you  know  that  The  Pagan  Review 
breathed  its  last  a  short  time  ago.  Its  end  was  singularly 
tranquil,  but  was  not  unexpected.  Your  friend  Mr. 
Sharp  consoles  me  by  talking  of  a  certain  resurrection 
for  what  he  rudely  calls  "  this  corruptible " :  if  so  the 
P/R  will  speak  a  new  and  wiser  tongue,  appear  in  a 
worthier  guise,  and  put  on  immortality  as  a  Quarterly. 

In  the  circumstances,  I  return,  with  sincerest  thanks, 
the  subscription  you  are  so  good  as  to  send.  Also  the 
memorial  card  of  our  late  lamented  friend — I  mean  the 
P/R,  not  W.  S.  Talking  of  W.  S.,  what  an  admirable 
fellow  he  is !  I  take  the  greatest  possible  interest  in  his 
career.  I  read  your  kind  and  generous  estimate  of  him 
in  Flower  o'  the  Vine  with  much  pleasure — and  though 
I  cannot  say  that  I  hold  quite  so  high  a  view  of  his  poetic 
powers  as  you  do,  I  may  say  that  perusal  of  your  re- 
marks gave  me  as  much  pleasure  as,  I  have  good  reason 
for  knowing,  they  gave  to  him.  He  and  I  have  been  '  de- 
lighting '  over  your  admirably  artistic  and  charming 
stories  in  Harper's.  By  the  way,  he's  settling  down  to  a 
serious  '  tussle.'  He  has  been  "  a  bad  boy  "  of  late :  but 
about  a  week  previous  to  the  death  of  the  Pagan/Review 
he  definitively  reformed — on  Sept.  11th  in  the  early  fore- 
noon, I  believe.  I  hope  earnestly  he  may  be  able  to  live 
on  the  straight  henceforth :  but  I  regret  to  say  that  I  see 
signs  of  backsliding.  Still,  he  may  triumph;  the  spirit 
is  (occasionally)  willing.  But,  apart  from  this,  he  is  now 
becoming  jealous  of  such  repute  as  he  has  won,  and  is 
going  to  deserve  it,  and  the  hopes  of  friends  like  your- 
self.   Mrs.  Brooks'  love  to  Catherine  and  yourself :  Mine, 

Tommaso  Mio, 

You  know  you  have  .  .  . 

W.  H.  Brooks. 

Elizabeth  A.  Brooks  was  so  pleased  to  receive  your 
letter. 

One  or  two  young  writers  sent  in  MS.  contributions 
and  these  of  course  he  had  to  return.  One  came  from 
Mr.  R.  Murray  Gilchrist  with  whom  he  had  come  into 


206  WILLIAM   SHARP 

touch  through  his  editorship  of  the  Literary  Chair  in 
Young  Folk's  Paper.    To  him  he  wrote : 

RuDGWicK,  Sussex,  10:  92. 
My  dear  Sir, 

As  it  is  almost  certain  that  for  unforeseen  private  rea- 
sons serial  publication  of  The  Pagan  Review  will  be  held 
over  till  sometime  in  1893,  I  regret  to  have  to  return 
your  MS.  to  you.  I  have  read  The  Nohle  Courtesan  with 
much  interest.  It  has  a  quality  of  suggestiveness  that 
is  rare,  and  I  hope  that  it  will  be  included  in  the  forth- 
coming volume  to  which  you  allude.  ...  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  story  would  be  improved  by  less — or  more  hid- 
den— emphasis  on  the  mysterious  aspect  of  the  woman's 
nature.  She  is  too  much  the  "  principle  of  Evil,"  the 
"  modern  Lilith."  If  you  do  not  use  it,  I  might  be  able 
— with  some  alterations  of  a  minor  kind — to  use  it  in 
the  P/R  when  next  Spring  it  reappears — if  such  is  its 
dubious  fate. 

Yours  very  truly, 

W.  H.  Brooks. 

P.  S.  It  is  possible  that  you  may  surmise — or  that  a 
common  friend  may  tell  you — who  the  editor  of  the  P/R 
is :  if  so,  may  I  ask  you  to  be  reticent  on  the  matter. 

Phenice  Ceoft,  Rudgwick, 

22:  10:92. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilchrist, 

Although  I  do  not  wish  the  matter  to  go  further  I 
do  not  mind  so  sympathetic  and  kindly  a  critic  knowing 
that  "  W.  S."  and  "  W.  H.  Brooks  "  are  synonymous. 

I  read  with  pleasure  your  very  friendly  and  cordial 
article  in  The  Library.  By  the  way,  it  may  interest  you 
to  know  that  the  "  Rape  of  the  Sabines  "  and — well,  I'll 
not  say  what  else ! — is  also  by  W.  H.  Brooks.  But  this, 
no  outsider  knows.  .  .  .  The  Pagan  Review  will  be  re- 
vived next  year,  but  probably  as  a  Quarterly :  and  I  look 
to  you  as  one  of  the  younger  men  of  notable  talent  to 
give  a  helping  hand  with  your  pen. 

I  suppose  you  come  to  London  occasionally.    I  hope 


WALT   WHITMAN  207 

when  you  are  next  south,  you  will  come  and  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  personal  acquaintance.  I  can  offer 
you  a  lovely  country,  country  fare,  a  bed,  and  a  cordial 
welcome. 

Yours  sincerely, 

William  Sharp. 

Intimation  had  also  to  be  sent  to  each  subscriber;  with 
it  was  enclosed  a  card  with  the  following  inscription : 

The  Pagan  Review. 

On  the  15th  September,  still-born  The  Pagan  Review. 

Regretted  by  none,  save  the  affectionate  parents  and 
a  few  forlorn  friends,  The  Pagan  Review  has  returned 
to  the  void  whence  it  came.  The  progenitors,  more  hope- 
ful than  reasonable,  look  for  an  unglorious  but  robust 
resurrection  at  some  more  fortunate  date.  "  For  of  such 
is  the  Kingdom  of  Paganism." 

W.  H.  Brooks. 

And  at  the  little  cottage  a  solemn  ceremony  took  place. 
The  Eeview  was  buried  in  a  corner  of  the  garden,  with 
ourselves,  my  sister-in-law  Mary  and  Mr.  Stanley  Little 
as  mourners;  a  framed  inscription  was  put  to  mark  the 
spot,  and  remained  there  until  we  left  Rudgwick. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

ALGIERS 

Vistas 

^Maky  schemes  were  mentally  cartooned  for  the  autumn 
and  winter's  work;  but  all  our  plans  were  suddenly  up- 
set by  an  unlooked  for  occurrence.  While  in  Rome  I  had 
had  a  severe  attack  of  Roman  fever;  and  I  had  never 
quite  recovered  therefrom.  The  prolonged  rains  in  the 
hot  autumn,  the  dampness  of  the  clay  soil  on  which  lay 
the  hamlet  of  Buck's  Green,  made  me  very  ill  again  with 
intermittent  low  fever.  It  was  deemed  imperative  that 
I  should  not  spend  the  whole  winter  in  England,  but  go 
in  search  of  a  dry  warm  climate.  But  we  had  not  the 
necessary  funds.  So  instead  of  devoting  himself  to  his 
dream-work,  as  he  had  hoped,  my  husband  laid  it  tem- 
porarily aside  and  settled  himself  to  write  between  Oc- 
tober and  Xmas,  two  exciting  boys'  serial  stories  for 
Young  Folk's  Paper,  and  thus  procured  sufficient  money 
to  enable  us  to  cross  to  North  Africa.  "  The  Red  Rider  " 
and  "  The  Last  of  the  Vikings  "  were  crowded  with  start- 
ling adventures.  The  weaving  of  sensational  plots  offered 
no  difficulties  to  him,  but  an  enjoyment.  He  did  not  con- 
sider the  achievement  of  any  real  value,  and  did  not 
wish  that  particular  kind  of  writing  to  be  associated  with 
his  name.  His  impressions  of  Algeria  and  Tunisia  were 
chronicled  in  a  series  of  articles,  such  as  "  Cardinal 
La\agerie,"  "  The  March  of  Rome,"  "  Rome  in  Africa," 
etc. ;  also  in  a  series  of  letters  to  a  friend  from  which  I 
select  one  or  two: 

BiSKBA,   2d   Feb.,    1893. 

"  Here  we  are  in  the  Sahara  at  last !  I  find  it  quite 
hopeless  to  attempt  to  give  you  any  adequate  idea  of 
the  beauty  and  strangeness  and  the  extraordinary  fasci- 

208 


ALGIEES  209 

nation  of  it  all.  The  two  days'  journey  here  was  alone 
worth  coming  to  Africa  for !  We  left  Mustapha  shortly 
before  dawn  on  Tuesday,  and  witnessed  a  lovely  day- 
break as  we  descended  the  slopes  to  Agha:  and  there 
we  saw  a  superb  sunrise  streaming  across  the  peaks  and 
ranges  of  the  Djurdjura  of  Kabylia  (the  African  High- 
lands) and  athwart  the  magnificent  bay.  The  sea  was 
dead  calm,  and  in  parts  still  mirrored  the  moon  and  a 
few  stars:  then  suddenly  one  part  of  it  became  molten 
gold,  and  that  nearest  us  was  muffled  into  purple-blue 
wavelets  by  the  dawn-wind.  The  sound  of  it  washing 
in,  almost  at  the  feet  of  the  palms  and  aloes  and  Barbary- 
figtrees  was  delicious.  We  had  a  long  and  delightful 
day's  journey  till  sunset.  Our  route  was  through  Grande 
Kabylie,  and  the  mountain  scenerj'-  in  particular  was  very 
impressive.  At  many  places  we  had  a  long  stop:  but 
everywhere  here  railway-travelling  is  more  like  journey- 
ing in  a  carriage,  the  rate  of  speed  not  being  much  more, 
with  ample  facilities  for  seeing  everything  en  route.  The 
Kabyles  are  the  original  inhabitants  of  Mauritanian 
Africa — and  both  in  language  and  appearance  these  Ber- 
bers differ  markedly  from  the  Moors  and  the  nomadic 
Arabs.  They  are  the  hardiest  and  most  industrious 
though  also  the  most  untameable,  of  the  native  races. 
They  live  in  innumerable  little  villages  scattered  among 
the  mountains  and  valleys  and  plains  of  the  Djurdjura 
country. 

"  The  sun  sank  over  the  uplands  of  Kabylia  as  we 
mounted  towards  the  ancient  Eoman  outpost-city,  Setif. 
Setif  stands  about  3,500  ft.  high:  and  crossing  the  pla- 
teaux beyond  it  was  like  making  an  excursion  through 
Scotland  in  midwinter.  Still,  despite  the  snow  on  the 
hills,  and  even  along  the  roads  of  Setif  itself,  the  cold 
was  not  so  severe  as  we  expected. 

"  At  four  next  morning  we  steamed  slowly  out  of  Setif 
in  full  moonlight.  An  hour  or  so  later  dawn  broke  as 
we  passed  a  series  of  Arab  encampments,  and  then  came 
another  sunrise  over  a  wild  and  desolate  country.  We 
were  now  entirely  in  Mahommedan  lands,  for  there  are 


210  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

comparatively  few  Europeans  south  of  the  city  of  Con- 
stantine. 

"  At  a  place  called  El  Guerrah  we  stopped  for  half  an 
hour  for  dejeuner.  Soon  thereafter  we  passed  the  Salt 
Lakes,  covered  with  wild-fowl,  flamingoes,  and  other 
birds.  It  was  hereabouts  that  we  first  saw  some  camels. 
Once  more  we  mounted,  and  soon  were  high  among  the 
Aures  mountains,  perhaps  the  most  delightful  hill-region 
of  North  Africa,  with  certainly  the  finest  population, 
Berbers  like  the  Kabyles,  but  Berber-aristocrats — Ber- 
bers refined  by  potent  inherited  strains  from  the  Romans 
of  old.  From  Batna  onwards  the  journey  was  an  endless 
delight.  We  came  more  and  more  into  the  East,  and 
soon  grew  wholly  accustomed  to  Arab  encampments, 
herds  of  camels.  Moors  and  Negroes  coming  in  with 
herds  of  bouricoes  (little  donkeys)  wild  black  goats  and 
gaunt  sheep,  Nomads  travelling  southward  or  eastward, 
picturesque  Saharians  or  Spahis  dashing  past  on  grey 
Arab  horses,  and  semi-nude  agriculturous  Berbers.  At 
last  the  desert  (the  hill-desert)  was  entered.  Here  one 
can  realise  the  full  significance  of  the  French  epithet 
tourmente:  and,  as  one  fares  further,  of  the  Biblical 
phrase,  the  abomination  of  desolation.  The  whole  coun- 
try seemed  under  the  curse  of  barrenness :  nothing  but 
gaunt  ribbed  mountains,  gaunt  ribbed  hills,  gaunt  ribbed 
sand-plains — this,  or  stony  wastes  of  an  arid  desolation 
beyond  words.  But  though  the  country  did  not  become 
less  awful  in  this  respect,  it  grew  wilder  and  stranger  as 
we  neared  Elkantara.  I  never  saw  scenery  so  terrific. 
The  entrance  to  the  last  Gorge  was  very  exciting,  for 
beyond  the  narrow  outlet  lay  the  Sahara  and  all  torrid 
Africa!  North  of  this  last  outpost  of  the  colder  zone 
the  date-palm  refuses  to  flourish:  and  here,  too,  the 
Saharan  Arab  will  not  linger ;  but  in  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
one  passes  from  this  arid  waste  into  African  heat  and 
a  superb  oasis  of  date-palms.  It  is  an  indescribable  sen- 
sation— that  of  suddenly  swinging  through  a  narrow  and 
fantastic  mountain-gorge,  where  all  is  gloom  and  terror, 
and  coming  abruptly  upon  the  full  splendour  of  the  sun- 


ALGIERS  211 

swept  Sahara,  with,  in  the  immediate  foreground,  an  im- 
mense oasis  of  date-palms,  all  green  and  gold!  The 
vista — the  vast  perspectives — the  glory  of  the  sunflood! 
From  that  moment,  one  can  hardly  restrain  one's  excite- 
ment. Very  soon,  however,  we  had  fresh  and  unexpected 
cause  for  excitement.  The  train  slowly  came  to  a  stop, 
and  crowds  of  Arabs  came  up.  The  line  had  been  de- 
stroyed for  more  than  half  a  mile — and  we  were  told  we 
must  walk  across  the  intervening  bit  of  desert,  and  ford 
the  Oued-Merjarla,  till  we  reached  the  train  sent  to  meet 
us.  We  could  see  it  in  the  distance — a  black  blotch  in 
the  golden  sunlight.  One  account  was  that  some  revolted 
Arabs  (and  some  of  the  outlying  tribes  are  said  to  be 
in  a  chronic  state  of  sullen  ill  will)  had  done  the  mis- 
chief: another,  and  more  probable,  that  the  hill-courses 
had  swollen  the  torrent  of  the  Oued-Biskra,  which  had 
rent  asunder  the  desert  and  displaced  the  lines.  The 
Arabs  carried  our  baggage,  and  we  set  forth  across  our 
first  Sahara -stretch.  Despite  the  heat,  the  air  was  so 
light  and  delicious  that  we  enjoyed  the  experience  im- 
mensely. The  river  (or  rather  barren  river-bed  with  a 
pale-green  torrent  rushing  through  a  deep  cleft  in  the 
sandy  grit)  was  crossed  on  a  kind  of  pontoon-bridge. 
Soon  after  this  the  sun  sank.  We  were  in  the  middle  of 
a  vast  plain,  almost  surrounded  by  a  series  of  low, 
pointed  hills,  which  became  a  deep  purple.  Far  to  the 
right  was  a  chott  (or  salt  lake)  and  of  lucent  silver.  For 
the  rest,  all  was  orange-gold,  yellow-gold,  green-gold, 
with,  high  over  the  desert,  a  vast  effulgence  of  a  mar- 
vellous roseate  flush.  Then  came  the  moment  of  scarlet 
and  rose,  saffron,  and  deepening  gold,  and  purple.  In 
the  distance,  underneath  the  dropping  sparkle  of  the 
Evening  Star,  we  could  discern  the  first  palms  of  the  oasis 
of  Biskra.  There  was  nothing  more  to  experience  till  ar- 
rival, we  thought:  but  just  then  we  saw  the  full  moon 
rise  out  of  the  Eastern  gloom.  And  what  a  moon  it  was ! 
Never  did  I  see  such  a  splendour  of  living  gold.  It 
seemed  incredibly  large,  and  whatever  it  illumed  be- 
came strange  and  beautiful  beyond  words. 


212  WILLIAM   SHARP 

"  Then  a  swift  run  past  some  ruined  outlying  mud- 
walls  and  Arab  tents,  some  groups  of  date-palms,  a  flash- 
ing of  many  lights  and  clamour  of  Eastern  tongues — and 
we  were  in  Biskra :  El  Biskra-ed-Nokkel,  to  give  it  its  full 
name  (the  City  of  the  Palms) !  We  found  pleasant  quar- 
ters in  the  semi-Moorish  Hotel  on  Sahara.  It  has  cool 
corridors,  with  arched  alcoves,  on  both  sides,  so  that  at 
any  time  of  day  one  may  have  coolness  somewhere.  In 
the  courtyard  are  seats  where  we  can  have  coffee  and 
cigarettes  under  the  palms,  beside  two  dear  little  tame 
gazelles.  .  .  . 

"  This  morning  we  had  many  novel  and  delightful 
glimpses  of  oriental  life.  In  one  narrow  street  the  way 
was  blocked  by  camels  lying  or  squatting  right  across 
the  road.  As  they  are  laden,  they  open  their  mouths, 
snarlingly,  and  give  vent  to  an  extraordinary  sound — 
part  roar,  part  grunt  of  expostulation.  .  .  . 

"  We  came  across  a  group  of  newly  arrived  camels 
from  the  distant  Oasis  of  Touggourt,  laden  with  enor- 
mous melons  and  j^umpkins :  and,  hopping  and  running 
about,  two  baby  camels !  They  were  extraordinary  crea- 
tures, and  justified  the  Arab  saying  that  the  first  camel 
was  the  offspring  of  an  ostrich  and  some  now  extinct  kind 
of  monster.  .  .  .  Oh,  this  splendid  flood  of  the  sun ! 

CONSTANTINE,   12th  Feb.,   1893. 

"  It  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  give  you  any  idea 
of  all  we  have  seen  since  I  last  wrote.  The  impressions 
are  so  numerous  and  so  vivid  until  one  attempts  to  seize 
them:  and  then  they  merge  in  a  labyrinth  of  memories. 
I  sent  you  a  P/c  from  Sidi  Okba — the  memory  of  which 
with  its  5,000  swarming  Arab  population  has  been  some- 
thing of  a  nightmare-recollection  ever  since.  I  can  well 
believe  how  the  City  of  Constantine  was  considered  one 
of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world.  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive  anything  grander.  Imagine  a  city  hanging  down 
the  sides  of  gorges  nearly  1,000  feet  in  depth — and  of  the 
most  fantastic  and  imposing  aspect.  In  these  terrible 
gorges,  which  have  been  fed  with  blood  so  often,  the 


ALGIERS  213 

storks  and  ravens  seem  like  tiny  sparrows  as  they  fly 
to  and  fro,  and  the  blue  rock-doves  are  simply  wisps  of 
aznre.  .  .  . 

Last  night  I  had  such  a  plunge  into  the  Barbaric  East 
as  I  have  never  had,  and  may  never  have  again.  I  cannot 
describe,  but  will  erelong  tell  you  of  those  narrow 
thronged  streets,  inexplicably  intricate,  fantastic,  bar- 
baric: the  Moorish  cafes  filled  with  motley  Orientals — 
from  the  turban'd  Turk,  the  fez'd  Jew,  the  wizard-like 
Moor,  to  the  Kabyl,  the  Soudanese,  the  desert  Arab :  the 
strange  haunts  of  the  dancing  girls:  the  terrible  street 
of  the  caged  women — like  wild  beasts  exposed  for  sale : 
and  the  crowded  dens  of  the  Haschisch-eaters,  with  the 
smoke  and  din  of  barbaric  lutes,  tam-tams,  and  nameless 
instruments,  and  the  strange  wild  haunting  chanting  of 
the  ecstaties  and  fanatics.  I  went  at  last  where  I  saw 
not  a  single  European:  and  though  at  some  risk,  I  met 
with  no  active  unpleasantness,  save  in  one  Haschisch 
place,  where  by  a  sudden  impulse  some  forty  or  fifty 
Moors  suddenly  swung  round,  as  the  shriek  of  an  Arab 
fanatic,  and  with  outstretched  hands  and  arms  cursed  the 
Gaiour-kelh  (dog  of  an  infidel!) :  and  here  I  had  to  act 
quickly  and  resolutely.  Thereafter  one  of  my  reckless 
fits  came  on,  and  I  plunged  right  into  the  midst  of  the 
whole  extraordinary  vision — for  a  kind  of  visionary  In- 
ferno it  seemed.  From  Haschisch-den  to  Haschisch-den  I 
wandered,  from  strange  vaulted  rooms  of  the  gorgeously 
jewelled  and  splendidly  dressed  prostitutes  to  the  alcoves 
where  lay  or  sat  or  moved  to  and  fro,  behind  iron  bars, 
the  caged  "  beauties  "  whom  none  could  reach  save  by 
gold,  and  even  then  at  risk;  from  there  to  the  dark  low 
rooms  or  open  pillared  places  where  semi-nude  dancing 
girls  moved  to  and  fro  to  a  wild  barbaric  music.  ...  I 
wandered  to  and  fro  in  that  bewildering  Moorish  maze, 
till  at  last  I  could  stand  no  more  impressions.  So  I 
found  my  way  to  the  western  ramparts,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  marvellous  nocturnal  landscajDe  of  mountain  and 
valley — and  thought  of  all  that  Constantino  had  been — 


214  WILLIAM    SHARP 

Cabthage, 
Sunday,  19th  Feb. 

"  How  strange  it  seems  to  write  a  line  to  London  from 
this  London  of  2,000  years  ago !  The  sea  breaks  at  my 
feet,  blue  as  a  turquoise  here,  but,  beyond,  a  sheet  of  mar- 
vellous pale  green,  exquisite  beyond  words.  To  the  right 
are  the  inland  waters  where  the  Carthaginian  galleys 
found  haven :  above,  to  the  right,  was  the  temple  of  Baal : 
right  above,  the  temple  of  Tanit,  the  famous  Astarte, 
otherwise  "  The  Abomination  of  the  Sidonians."  Where 
the  Carthaginians  lived  in  magnificent  luxury,  a  little 
out  of  the  city  itself,  is  now  the  Arab  town  of  Sidi-ban- 
Said — like  a  huge  magnolia-bloom  on  the  sunswept  hill- 
side. There  is  nothing  of  the  life  of  to-day  visible,  save 
a  white-robed  Bedouin  herding  goats  and  camels,  and, 
on  the  sea,  a  few  felucca-rigged  fisherboats  making  for 
distant  Tunis  by  the  Strait  of  Goletta.  But  there  is  life 
and  movement  in  the  play  of  the  wind  among  the  grasses 
and  lentisks,  in  the  hum  of  insects,  in  the  whisper  of 
the  warm  earth,  in  the  glow  of  the  burning  sunshine  that 
floods  downward  from  a  sky  of  glorious  blue.  Carthage 
— I  can  hardly  believe  it.  What  ivresse  of  the  mind  the 
word  creates ! " 

The  following  letter  was  received  shortly  after  our 
return : 

19  St.  Maby  Abbotts  Tebbace,  W., 

7th  March,  1893. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  did  not  reply  to  your  kind  letter  because  I  could  not 
divest  myself  of  a  certain  suspicion  of  the  postal  ar- 
rangements of  the  desert.  I  admit  however  there  was 
little  warrant  for  misgiving  since  they  are  evidently  civil- 
ised enough  to  keep  the  natives  well  supplied  with  copies 
of  The  Island.  The  thought  of  the  studious  Sheik  pain- 
fully spelling  out  that  work  with  the  help  of  his  lexicon 
is  simply  fascinating,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
read  The  Arabian  Nights  in  the  original  by  way  of  re- 
turning the  compliment.  But  if  I  talk  any  more  about 
myself  I  shall  forget  the  immediate  purpose  of  this  let- 


ALGIERS  215 

ter  which  is  to  ask  if  you  and  Mrs.  Sharp  are  back  again; 
and,  if  you  are,  how  and  when  we  may  see  you.  I  think 
this  was  about  the  date  of  your  promised  return.  We 
shall  all  be  delighted  to  see  you  and  to  hear  about  your 
journey.  You  are  more  than  ever  Children  of  To-morrow 
in  my  esteem,  to  be  able  not  only  to  dare  such  trips  but 
to  do  them.  When  I  read  your  letter  I  felt  more  than 
ever  a  child  of  yesterday.  Do  write  and  give  us  a  chance 
of  seeing  you  as  soon  as  you  can. 

Ever  yours, 

R.  Whiteing. 

Mr.  Whiteing  was  one  of  the  many  friends  who  came 
to  our  cottage  for  week-end  visits  in  the  ensuing  spring 
and  summer.  Among  others  whom  we  welcomed  were 
Mrs.  Mona  Caird,  Miss  Alice  Corkran,  Mr.  George  Cot- 
terell,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Le  Gallienne,  the  Honble  Roden  Noel, 
Mr.  Percy  White,  Dr.  Byres  Moir,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank 
Rinder,  Mr.  R.  A.  Streatfield,  Mr.  Laurence  Binyon,  my 
brother  R.  Farquharson  Sharp,  and  my  sister-in-law 
Mary,  or  Marik,  who  for  many  years  acted  as  my  hus- 
band's secretary  and  whose  handwriting  became  familiar 
to  many  correspondents  who  afterwards  received  letters 
in  handwriting  from  Fiona  Macleod. 

The  Diary  for  December  1893  has  the  following  entries : 

"  We  came  back  to  a  lovely  English  Spring,  the  finest 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century  it  is  said.  In  May  E.  went  to 
Paris  for  the  Salon :  I  went  to  Ventnor  and  Freshwater. 
"  Wrote  my  long  article  for  Harpers'  on  "  The  March  of 
Rome  in  North  Africa." 

"  At  the  end  of  July  we  went  to  Scotland :  first  for  three 
weeks  to  St.  Andrew's:  then  to  Mrs.  Glasford  Bells'  at 
Tirinie,  near  Aberf eldy  in  Perthshire :  then  to  Corrie,  in 
Arran,  for  over  a  fortnight.  Then  E.  visited  friends,  and 
I  went  to  Arrochar,  etc.  Then  at  my  mother's  in  Edin- 
burgh: and  on  my  way  south  I  stopped  with  R.  Murray 
Gilchrist  at  Eyam,  in  Derbyshire. 


216  WILLIAM   SHARP 

"  In  the  autumn  I  arranged  with  Frank  Murray  of 
Derby  to  publish  Vistas.  He  could  afford  to  give  me  only 
£10,  but  in  this  instance  money  was  a  matter  of  little  im- 
portance. Harpers'  gave  me  £50  for  "  The  March  of 
Rome."  Knowles  asked  me  to  do  ''  La  Jeune  Belgique  " 
for  the  September  number  which  I  did,  and  he  commis- 
sioned other  work.  On  the  head  of  it,  too,  Elkin  Mat- 
thews and  John  Lane  have  commissioned  an  extension  of 
the  essay,  and  translation,  for  a  volume  to  be  issued  in 
the  spring.  In  Good  Words,  "  Froken  Bergliot,"  a  short 
story,  was  much  liked :  later,  in  December,  "  Love  in  a 
Mist  "  (written  June  /92)  still  more  so.  African  articles 
commissioned  by  Harpers,  Atlantic  Monthly,  Art  Jour- 
nal, Good  Words,  and  provisionally  two  others. 

"  Have  written  several  stories  and  poems.  Also  done 
the  first  part  of  a  Celtic  romance  called  Pharais,  from 
the  word  of  Muireadach  Albarmach,  "  Mithil  domb  triall 
gu  tigh  na  Pharais."  Have  mentally  cartooned  Nostalgia 
(a  short  one  vol.  romance)  The  Woman  of  Thirty  (do. 
novel),  Ivresse  (which  I  have  proposed  to  Lady  Colin 
Campbell  for  our  collaboration  in  preference  to  Eve  and 
I) :  "  Passee,"  "  Hazard  of  Love  " :  a  collection  of  short 
stories,  collectively  called  The  Comedy  of  Woman:  and 
other  volumes  in  romance,  fiction,  poetry,  and  drama. 
Have  done  part  of  Amor  (in  Sonnets  mostly  as  yet) :  and 
the  first  part  of  "  The  Tower  of  Silence."  Have  thought 
out  "  Demogorgon  " :  also,  projected  a  dramatic  version 
of  Anna  Karenina. 

"  Some  time  ago  signed  an  agreement  with  Swan  Son- 
nenschin  &  Co.  to  write  a  new  life  of  Rossetti.  It  will 
be  out,  I  hope,  next  spring.  Been  getting  slowly  on 
with  it. 

"  Besides  the  bigger  things  I  am  thinking  of,  e.  g.  in 
poetic  drama  "  Demogorgon  " :  in  fiction  "  The  Lunes  of 
Youth"  (Part  1  of  the  Trilogy  of  The  Londoners),  and 
the  Women  series,  have  thought  out  The  Literary  Ideal 
etc — and  also  the  philosophical  "  The  Brotherhood  of 
Rest."  Besides,  a  number  of  short  stories :  some  with  a 
definite  end  in  view,  that  of  coherent  book-publication. 


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Fac-simile  of  an  autograph  poem  by  William  Sharp 


ALGIERS  217 

In  the  background  are  other  works;  e.  g.  DartJiula, 
thought  out  nearly  fully,  which  I  would  like  to  make  my 
chef  d'oeuvre.  In  all,  I  have  actually  on  hand  eight  books, 
and  innumerable  stories,  articles,  etc. 

The  things  first  to  be  done  now  are 

Books  1     Finish  new  Life  of  Rossetti 

2  Finish  Pharais 

3  Write  Nostalgia 

4  Collaborate  in  Ivresse 

then,  The  Brotherhood  of  Rest 
and.  The  Comedy  of  Woman 
and,  The  Lunes  of  Youth 
(Articles)  "The  Literary  Ideal":  Flemgen:  "Tunisia": 
"  The   Province   of    Constantine " :    "  The    Province    of 
Oran  " :  "  Lyric  Japan  " :  "  Chansons  D' Amour  " :  etc  etc. 
(Short  Stories)  "  The  late  Mrs.  Pygmalion"  etc.  etc." 

Vistas  was  published  early  in  1894  by  Mr.  Frank  Mur- 
ray of  Derby  in  "  his  Regent  Series,"  of  which  Frangipani 
by  R.  Murray  Gilchrist  was  the  first  number.  The  Eng- 
lish edition  of  Vistas  is  dedicated  to  Madame  Elspeth  H. 
Barzia — an  anagram  on  my  name. 

In  the  Dedication  to  H.  W.  Alden  (author  of  "  God 
in  His  World")  in  the  American  edition — which  con- 
tains an  extra  '  Interlude  '  entitled  "  The  Whisperer  " — 
the  intention  of  the  book  is  thus  explained: 

"You  asked  me  what  my  aim  was  in  those  dramatic 
interludes  which,  collectively,  I  call  Vistas.  I  could  not 
well  explain :  nor  can  I  do  so  now.  All  are  vistas  of  the 
inner  life  of  the  human  soul,  psychic  episodes.  One  or 
two  are  directly  autopsychical,  others  are  renderings  of 
dramatically  conceived  impressions  of  spiritual  emotion : 
to  two  or  three  no  quotation  could  be  more  apt  than  that 
of  the  Spanish  novelist,  Emilia  Pardo  Bazan :  '  Enter 
with  me  into  the  dark  zone  of  the  human  soul.'  These 
Vistas  were  written  at  intervals:  the  most  intimate  in 
the  spiritual  sense,  so  long  ago  as  the  spring  of  1886, 
when  during  recovery  from  a  long  and  nearly  fatal  ill- 


218  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

ness  '  Lilith '  came  to  me  as  a  vision  and  was  withheld 
in  words  as  soon  as  I  could  put  pen  to  paper.  Another 
was  written  in  Rome,  after  a  vain  effort  to  express  ade- 
quately in  a  different  form  the  episode  of  death-menaced 
and  death-haunted  love  among  those  remote  Scottish 
wilds  where  so  much  of  my  childhood  and  boyhood  and 
early  youth  was  spent.  ...  I  came  upon  for  the  first  time 
'  La  Princesse  Maleine  '  and  '  L'Intruse.' 

"  One  or  two  of  the  Vistas  were  written  in  Stuttgart 
in  1891,  others  a  year  or  so  later  in  London  or  else- 
where— all  in  what  is,  in  somewhat  unscholarly  fashion, 
called  the  Maeterlinckian  formula.  Almost  from  the  first 
moment  it  seemed  clear  to  me  that  the  Belgian  poet- 
dramatist  had  introduced  a  new  and  vital  literary  form. 
It  was  one  that  many  had  been  seeking — stumblingly, 
among  them,  the  author  of  Vistas — but  Maurice  Maet- 
erlinck wrought  the  crude  material  into  a  form  fit  for 
swift  and  dextrous  use,  at  once  subtle  and  simple.  The 
first  which  I  wrote  under  this  impulse  is  that  entitled 
'  Finis.'  The  latest  or  latest  but  one  ('  The  Whisperer,' 
now  added  to  this  Edition)  seems  to  me,  if  I  may  say  so, 
as  distinctively  individual  as  '  The  Passing  of  Lilith,' 
and  some,  at  least  of  my  critics  have  noticed  this  in  con- 
nection with  '  The  Lute  Player.'  In  all  but  its  final  form, 
it  embodies  a  conception  that  has  been  with  me  for  many 
years,  ever  since  boyhood:  a  living  actuality  for  me,  at 
last  expressed,  but  so  inadequately  as  to  make  me  differ 
from  the  distinguished  critic  who  adjudged  it  the  best 
of  the  Vistas.  To  me  it  is  the  most  obvious  failure  in 
the  book,  though  fundamentally,  so  near  and  real  emo- 
tionally." 


END   OF   PAET   ONE 


Part  II 
FIONA   MACLEOD 


/   too  loill  set  my  face  to  the  wind  and  throw  my  handful 

of  seed  on  high, 
It  is  loveliness  I  seek,  not  lovely  things. 

F.  M. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE   PSEUDONYM 

Pharais 

The  summer  of  1893  was  hot  and  sunny:  and  we  de- 
lighted in  onr  little  garden  with  its  miniature  lawns,  its 
espalier  fruit  trees  framing  the  vegetable  garden,  and 
its  juvenile  but  to  us  fascinating  flower  beds.  Horsham, 
our  nearest  town,  was  seven  miles  distant  and  the  village 
of  Eudgwick  lay  a  mile  away  up  a  steady  ascent  beyond 
the  station.  William  Sharp  was  happy  once  more  to  be 
resident  in  the  country,  although  the  surroundings  were 
not  a  type  of  scenery  that  appealed  to  him.  But,  as  he 
wrote  to  a  friend,  it  was  not  so  much  the  place  that  he 
liked  "  as  what  is  in  it  conducive  to  that  keen  perturba- 
tion, elation,  excitement  of  mind,  which  is  life  worth 
living." 

At  Phenice  Croft  his  imagination  was  in  a  perpetual 
ferment.  Out  of  the  projected  work  that  he  had  noted 
in  his  diary,  out  of  those  subjects  that  lay  in  his  mind 
to  germinate  and  mature,  or  to  wither  and  be  rejected, 
grew  one  or  two  achievements;  and  in  particular  after 
the  completion  of  Vistas,  a  romance  of  the  Isles,  Phar- 
ais, about  which  his  friend  Mr.  Cotterell  in  acknowledg- 
ing a  copy  of  these  Dramatic  Interludes,  wrote  to  the 
author : 

"  Vistas  should  mark  a  point  in  your  career  from 
which  you  should  go  forward  to  greater  things.  I  am 
eager  to  see  the  Celtic  romance." 

The  quiet  and  leisure  at  Phenice  Croft,  the  peace,  the 
"  green  life  "  around  were  unspeakably  welcome  to  my 
husband.  Once  again,  he  saw  visions  and  dreamed 
dreams;  the  psychic  subjective  side  of  his  dual  nature 
predominated.  He  was  in  an  acutely  creative  condition ; 
and,  moreover  he  was  passing  from  one  phase  of  literary 
work  to  another,  deeper,  more  intimate,  more  permanent. 

221 


222  WILLIAM    SHARP 

So  far,  he  had  found  no  adequate  method  for  the  expres- 
sion of  his  "  second  self  "  though  the  way  was  led  thereto 
by  Sosplri  di  Roma  and  Vistas. 

The  Sospiri  di  Roma  was  the  turning  point.  Those 
unrhymed  poems  of  irregular  meter  are  filled  not  only 
with  the  passionate  delight  in  life,  with  the  sheer  joy  of 
existence,  but  also  with  the  ecstatic  worship  of  beauty 
that  possessed  him  during  those  spring  months  we  spent 
in  Rome,  when  he  had  cut  himself  adrift  for  the  time 
from  the  usual  routine  of  our  life,  and  touched  a  high 
point  of  health  and  exuberant  spirits.  There,  at  last,  he 
had  found  the  desired  incentive  towards  a  true  expres- 
sion of  himself,  in  the  stimulus  and  sympathetic  under- 
standing of  the  friend  to  whom  he  dedicated  the  first  of 
the  books  published  under  his  pseudonym.  This  friend- 
ship began  in  Rome  and  lasted  throughout  the  remainder 
of  his  life. 

And  though  this  newer  phase  of  his  work  was  at  no 
time  the  result  of  collaboration,  as  certain  of  his  critics 
have  suggested,  he  was  deeply  conscious  of  his  indebted- 
ness to  this  friend,  for — as  he  stated  to  me  in  a  letter 
of  instructions,  written  before  he  went  to  America  in 
1896,  concerning  his  wishes  in  the  event  of  his  death — 
he  realised  that  it  was  "  to  her  I  owe  my  development 
as  '  Fiona  Macleod '  though,  in  a  sense  of  course,  that 
began  long  before  I  knew  her,  and  indeed  while  I  was 
still  a  child,"  and  that,  as  he  believed,  "  without  her  there 
would  have  been  no  '  Fiona  Macleod.'  " 

Because  of  her  beauty,  her  strong  sense  of  life  and 
of  the  joy  of  life;  because  of  her  keen  intuitions  and 
mental  alertness,  her  personality  stood  for  him  as  a  sym- 
bol of  the  heroic  women  of  Greek  and  Celtic  days,  a  sym- 
bol that,  as  he  expressed  it,  unlocked  new  doors  in  his 
mind  and  put  him  "  in  touch  with  ancestral  memories  " 
of  his  race.  So,  for  a  time,  he  stilled  the  critical,  intel- 
lectual mood  of  William  Sharp  to  give  play  to  the  devel- 
opment of  this  new  found  expression  of  subtler  emotions, 
towards  which  he  had  been  moving  with  all  the  ardour 
of  his  nature. 


THE    PSEUDONYM  223 

From  then  till  the  end  of  his  life  there  was  a  continual 
play  of  the  two  forces  in  him,  or  of  the  two  sides  of  his 
nature:  of  the  intellectually  observant,  reasoning  mind 
— the  actor,  and  of  the  intuitively  observant,  spiritual 
mind — the  dreamer,  which  differentiated  more  and  more 
one  from  the  other,  and  required  different  conditions, 
different  environment,  different  stimuli,  until  he  seemed 
to  be  two  personalities  in  one.  It  was  a  development 
which,  as  it  proceeded,  produced  a  tremendous  strain  on 
his  physical  and  mental  resources;  and  at  one  time  be- 
tween 1897-8  threatened  him  with  a  complete  nervous 
collapse. 

And  there  was  for  a  time  distinct  opposition  between 
these  two  natures  which  made  it  extremely  difficult  for 
him  to  adjust  his  life,  for  the  two  conditions  which  were 
equally  imperative  in  their  demands  upon  him.  His 
preference,  naturally,  was  for  the  intimate  creative  work 
which  he  knew  grew  out  of  his  inner  self;  though  the 
exigencies  of  life,  his  dependence  on  his  pen  for  his  live- 
lihood— and,  moreover  the  keen  active  interest  ^  William 
Sharp  '  took  in  all  the  movements  of  the  day,  literary  and 
political,  at  home  and  abroad — required  of  him  a  great 
amount  of  applied  study  and  work. 

During  those  two  years  at  Phenice  Croft,  to  which  he 
always  looked  back  with  deep  thankfulness,  he  was  the 
dreamer — he  was  testing  his  new  powers,  living  his  new 
life,  and  delighting  in  the  opportunity  for  psychic  experi- 
mentation. And  for  such  experimentation  the  place 
seemed  to  him  to  be  peculiarly  suited.  To  me  it  seemed 
"  uncanny,"  and  to  have  a  haunted  atmosphere — created 
unquestionably  by  him — that  I  found  difficult  to  live  in, 
unless  the  sun  was  shining.  This  uncanny  effect  was  felt 
by  more  than  one  friend;  by  Mr.  Murray  Gilchrist,  for 
instance,  whose  impressions  were  described  by  his  host 
in  one  of  the  short  "  Tragic  Landscapes." 

Pharais  was  the  first  of  the  books  written  and  pub- 
lished under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Fiona  Macleod."  The 
first  reference  to  it  is  in  the  afore  noted  diary :  "  Have 
also   done   the   first   part   of   a    Celtic   romance   called 


224  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

Pharais"  The  next  is  in  a  letter  written  to  Mrs.  Janvier 
from  St.  Andrews,  on  12th  August,  1893,  before  the 
author  had  decided  on  the  use  of  a  pseudonym: 

".  .  .  The  white  flowers  you  speak  of  are  the  moon- 
daisies,  are  they  not? — what  we  call  moonflowers  in  the 
west  of  Scotland  and  ox-eye  daisies  in  England,  and  mar- 
guerites in  France?  ...  It  is  very  strange  that  you 
should  write  about  them  to  me  just  as  I  was  working  out 
a  scene  in  a  strange  Celtic  tale  I  am  writing,  called  Pha- 
rais,  wherein  the  weird  charm  and  terror  of  a  night  of 
tragic  significance  is  brought  home  to  the  reader  (or  I 
hope  so)  by  a  stretch  of  dew-wet  moonflowers  glimmering 
white  through  the  mirk  of  a  dusk  laden  with  sea  mists. 
Though  this  actual  scene  was  written  a  year  or  two  ago — 
and  one  or  two  others  of  the  first  part  of  Pharais — I  am 
going  to  re-write  it,  your  letter  having  brought  some 
subtle  inspiration  with  it.  Pharais  is  a  foil  to  the  other 
long  story  I  am  working  at.  While  it  is  full  of  Celtic 
romance  and  dream  and  the  glamour  of  the  mysterious, 
the  other  is  a  comedy  of  errors — somewhat  in  the  nature, 
so  far,  of  "A  Fellowe  and  His  Wife"  (I  mean  as  to 
style).  In  both,  at  least  the  plot,  the  central  action,  the 
germinal  motif,  is  original:  though  I  for  one  lay  little 
stress  on  extraneous  originality  in  comparison  with  that 
inner  originality  of  individual  life.  ...  I  have  other 
work  on  the  many  occupied  easels  in  the  studio  of  my 
mind:  but  of  nothing  of  this  need  I  speak  at  present. 
Of  minor  things,  the  only  one  of  any  importance  is  a 
long  article  on  a  subject  wherein  I  am  (I  suppose)  the 
only  specialist  among  English  men  of  letters — the  Bel- 
gian literary  Eenaissance  since  1880.  It  is  entitled  "  La 
Jeune  Belgique,"  and  will  appear  in  (I  understand)  the 
September  number  of  The  Nineteenth  Century.  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  We  must  each  '  gang  our  ain  gait.'  I'm  singu- 
larly indifferent  to  what  other  people  think  in  any  mat- 
ter where  I  feel  strongly  myself.  Perhaps  it  is  for  this 
reason  that  I  am  rarely  '  put  out '  by  adverse  criticism  or 
opinion — except  on  technical  shortcomings.    I  do  a  lot  of 


THE    PSEUDONYM  225 

my  own  work  here  lying  out  on  the  sand-dunes  by  the 
sea.  Yesterday  I  had  a  strange  experience.  I  was  writ- 
ing in  pencil  in  Pharais  of  death  by  the  sea — and  almost 
at  my  feet  a  drowned  corpse  was  washed  in  by  the  tide 
and  the  slackening  urgency  of  the  previous  night's  gale. 
The  body  proves  to  be  that  of  a  man  from  the  opposite 
Forfar  coast.  It  had  been  five  days  in  the  water,  and 
death  had  played  havoc  with  his  dignity  of  lifeless  man- 
hood. I  learned  later  that  his  companion  had  been  found 
three  days  ago,  tide-drifted  in  the  estuary  of  the  Tay. 
It  was  only  a  bit  of  flotsam,  in  a  sense,  but  that  poor 
derelict  so  sullenly  surrendered  of  the  sea  changed  for 
me,  for  a  time,  the  aspect  of  those  blithe  waters  I  love  so 
well.  In  the  evening  I  walked  along  the  same  sands. 
The  sea  purred  like  a  gigantic  tigress,  with  a  whisper  of 
peace  and  rest  and  an  infinite  sweet  melancholy.  What  a 
sepulchral  fraud.  .  .  . 

"  Life  seems  to  move,  now  high  and  serene  and  incred- 
ibly swift  as  an  albatross  cleaving  the  upper  air,  now  as 
a  flood  hurled  across  rocks  and  chasms  and  quicksands. 
But  it  is  all  life — even  the  strangely  still  and  quiet  back- 
waters, even,  indeed,  the  same  healthful  commonplace 
lagoons  where  one  havens  so  gladly  often.  .  .  ." 

Three  months  later,  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Eichard  Stod- 
dart  and  proposed  for  serial  publication  in  Lippincotts 
a  romance  to  be  called  Nostalgia — which  was  never  writ- 
ten. In  the  same  letter  he  speaks  of  "  another  storj% 
Pharais,"  which  he  describes  as  'written  deeply  in  the 
Celtic  spirit  and  from  the  Celtic  standpoint."  Neither 
suggestion  was  accepted ;  and  the  author  decided  to  issue 
Pharais  as  soon  as  possible  in  book  form,  and  not  under 
his  own  name. 

When  in  the  following  year  the  book  was  published  the 
author,  forgetting  that  he  had  ever  written  Mrs.  Janvier 
about  it,  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  her,  and  said  merely  that  it 
was  a  book  in  which  he  was  interested.  Whereupon  she 
wrote  and  asked  if  the  book  were  not  his  own,  and  he 
replied : 


226  WILLIAM    SHARP 

".  .  .  Yes,  Pharais  is  mine.  It  is  a  book  out  of  my 
heart,  out  of  the  core  of  my  heart.  I  wrote  it  with  the 
pen  dipped  in  the  very  ichor  of  my  life.  It  has  reached 
people  more  than  I  dreamt  of  as  likely.  In  Scotland  es- 
pecially it  has  stirred  and  created  a  new  movement. 
Here,  men  like  George  Meredith,  Grant  Allen,  H,  D. 
Traill,  and  Theodore  Watts  hailed  it  as  a  *  work  of 
genius.'  Ignored  in  some  quarters,  abused  in  others,  and 
unheeded  by  the  '  general  reader,'  it  has  yet  had  a  re- 
ception that  has  made  me  deeply  glad.  It  is  the  begin- 
ning of  my  true  work.  Only  one  or  two  know  I  am  '  Fi- 
ona Macleod.'  Let  you  and  my  dear  T.A.J,  preserve  my 
secret.    I  trust  you. 

"  You  will  find  more  of  me  in  Pharais  than  in  any- 
thing I  have  written.  Let  me  add  that  you  will  find  The 
Mountain  Lovers,  at  which  I  am  now  writing  when  I  can, 
more  elemental  still,  while  simpler.  .  .  .  By  blood  I  am 
part  Celt,  and  partly  so  by  upbringing,  by  Spirit  wholly 
so.  .  .  .  One  day  I  will  tell  you  of  some  of  the  strange  old 
mysteries  of  earlier  days  I  have  part  learned,  part  di- 
vined, and  other  things  of  the  spirit.  You  can  under- 
stand how  I  cannot  do  my  true  work,  in  this  accursed 
London." 

A  little  later  he  wrote : 

"...  I  resent  too  close  identification  with  the  so-called 
Celtic  renaissance.  If  my  work  is  to  depend  solely  on  its 
Gaelic  connection,  then  let  it  go,  as  go  it  must.  My  work 
must  be  beautiful  in  itself — Beauty  is  a  Queen  and  must 
be  served  as  a  Queen. 

".  .  .  You  have  asked  me  once  or  twice  about  F.  M., 
why  I  took  her  name:  and  how  and  when  she  came  to 
write  Pharais.  It  is  too  complex  to  tell  you  just  now.  .  .  . 
The  name  was  born  naturally:  (of  course  I  had  associa- 
tions with  the  name  Macleod.)  It,  Fiona,  is  very  rare 
now.  Most  Highlanders  would  tell  you  it  was  extinct — 
even  as  the  diminutive  of  Fionaghal  (Flora).  But  it  is 
not.    It  is  an  old  Celtic  name  (meaning  "  a  fair  maid") 


THE    PSEUDONYM  227 

still  occasionally  to  be  found.  I  know  a  little  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  Highland  clergyman,  who  is  called  Fiona. 
All  my  work  is  so  intimately  wrought  with  my  own  ex- 
periences that  I  cannot  tell  you  about  Pharais,  etc.,  with- 
out telling  you  my  whole  life." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Pharais  was  not  the  first  written 
expression  of  the  new  work.  It  was  preceded  by  a  short 
story  entitled  "  The  Last  Fantasy  of  James  Achanna  " 
that  in  the  autumn  of  1893  was  sent  to  The  Scots  Ob- 
server. It  was  declined  by  Mr.  Henley  who,  however, 
wrote  a  word  of  genuine  encouragement.  He  accepted 
Mr.  Henley's  decision,  and  the  story  was  never  reprinted 
in  its  first  form.  It  was  re-written  several  times ;  it  was 
included  in  The  Dominion  of  Dreams  as  "  The  Archer." 
During  the  writing  of  Pharais  the  author  began  to  real- 
ise how  much  the  feminine  element  dominated  in  the 
book,  that  it  grew  out  of  the  subjective,  or  feminine  side 
of  his  nature.  He,  therefore,  decided  to  issue  the  book 
under  the  name  of  Fiona  Macleod,  that  "  flashed  ready 
made "  into  his  mind.  Mrs.  Janvier  wrote  later  and 
asked  why  he,  a  man,  chose  to  send  forth  good  work 
under  the  signature  of  a  woman.    He  answered : 

"...  I  can  write  out  of  my  heart  in  a  way  I  could  not 
do  as  William  Sharp,  and  indeed  I  could  not  do  so  if  I 
were  the  woman  Fiona  Macleod  is  supposed  to  be,  unless 
veiled  in  scrupulous  anonymity.  .  .  . 

"  This  rapt  sense  of  oneness  with  nature,  this  cos- 
mic ecstasy  and  elation,  this  wayfaring  along  the  ex- 
treme verges  of  the  common  world,  all  this  is  so  wrought 
up  with  the  romance  of  life  that  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  expression  by  my  outer  self,  insistent  and  tyran- 
nical as  that  need  is.  .  .  .  My  truest  self,  the  self  who  is 
below  all  other  selves,  and  my  most  intimate  life  and  joys 
and  sufferings,  thoughts,  emotions  and  dreams,  must  find 
expression,  yet  I  cannot  save  in  this  hidden  way." 

He  was  wont  to  say  "  Should  the  secret  be  found  out, 
Fiona  dies."     Later  in  the  year  he  wrote :  "  Sometimes 


228  WILLIAM    SHARP 

I  am  tempted  to  believe  I  am  half  a  woman,  and  so 
far  saved  as  I  am  by  the  hazard  of  chance  from  what  a 
woman  can  be  made  to  suffer  if  one  let  the  light  of  the 
common  day  illuminate  the  avenues  and  vistas  of  her 
heart.  ..." 

A  copy  of  Vistas  and  one  of  Pliarais  were  sent  to 
George  Meredith,  who  wrote  in  acknowledgment  to  the 
author : 

Box  Hill,  July  5,  1894. 

Deae  Mr.  Sharp, 

'  Vistas '  gave  me  pleasure,  and  a  high  lift  at  times. 
There  is  the  breath  in  it.  Only  beware  of  a  hurried 
habit  of  mind  that  comes  of  addiction  to  Impressionist  ef- 
fects.   They  engender  that  mood  in  readers  ultimately. 

'  Pharais '  is  in  many  respects  most  admirable — pure 
Celtic  salt.  I  should  have  written  to  thank  the  writer 
before  this :  but  I  am  at  work  up  to  an  hour  of  the  dinner 
bell  day  by  day  at  the  finish  of  this  novel — and  not  too 
happy  about  it. 

Will  you  beg  Miss  Macleod's  excuse  of  me  for  the  mo- 
ment? Her  book  is  one  to  fly  sure  to  the  mark.  I  hope 
you  will  come  to  me  lq  September,  when  I  shall  be  back 
there. 

Give  my  warm  respects  to  your  wife. 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

George  Meredith. 

The  following  letter  to  Mr.  Grant  Allen  is  one  of  the 
earliest  that  were  signed  with  the  pseudonjnii: 

1894. 

Grant  Allen,  Esq.  : 
Dear  Sir, 

I  have  only  now  ascertained  that  you  are  in  England. 
I  was  informed  that  you  were  in  the  south  of  France. 
Some  short  time  ago  I  asked  Mr.  Frank  Murray  of 
Derby  to  forward  to  you  a  copy  of  my  just  published 
romance  Pharais.    I  now  write  to  ask  if  you  will  accept 


THE    PSEUDONYM  229 

it  as  a  slight  token  of  homage  from  the  yomigest  and 
latest  of  Celtic  writers  to  the  most  brilliant  chamjDion  of 
the  Celtic  genius  now  living.  I  do  not,  however,  send  it 
by  wa}^  of  inveigling  you  to  write  about  it,  much  as  any 
word  of  yours  would  mean  to  me  both  in  service  and 
honour:  but  primarily  because  of  your  deep  and  vivid 
sympathy  not  only  with  nature  but  with  the  Celtic 
vision  of  nature — and,  also,  let  me  add,  because  of  the 
many  delightful  hours  I  have  enjoyed  with  your  writings. 

Faithfully  yours, 


Mr.  Grant  Allen  replied: 


Fiona  Macleod. 


The  Ceoft,  Hixdhead. 


Dear  Madam, 

I  thank  you  for  your  book,  and  still  more  for  your 
charming  and  too  flattering  letter.  Pharais  strikes  me  as 
a  beautiful  and  poetical  piece  of  work.  It  is  instinct  with 
the  dreamy  Celtic  genius,  and  seems  to  come  to  us 
straight  from  the  Isles  of  the  Dead.  That  shadowy  Os- 
sianic  spirit,  as  of  your  misty  straits  and  your  floating 
islands,  reminds  me  exactly  of  the  outlook  from  the  west- 
ern mountains  over  the  summer-blue  belted  sea  as  I 
saw  it  once  on  an  August  morning  at  Oban.  Too  shad- 
owy, sometimes,  and  too  purely  poetical,  I  fear,  for  your 
Saxon  readers.  But  the  opening  sentences  are  beautiful, 
and  the  nature-studies  and  the  sense  of  colour  through- 
out are  charming.  Now,  after  so  much  praise,  will  you 
forgive  a  few  questions  and  a  word  of  criticism?  You 
are,  I  take  it,  a  young  writer,  and  so  an  older  hand  may 
give  you  a  hint  or  two.  Don't  another  time  interlard 
your  English  with  Gaelic.  Even  a  confirmed  Celtomaniac 
like  myself  finds  it  a  trifle  distracting.  Don't  say  "  the 
English,"  and  "  the  Gaelic."  Give  a  little  more  story  to 
less  pure  poetry.  Of  course  I  recognise  that  your  work 
is  an  idyll,  not  a  novel,  a  cameo,  not  a  woodcut ;  but  even 
so,  it  seems  to  me  a  trifle  too  dreamy.  Forgive  this 
frankness,  and  remember  that  success  still  lies  in  the  lap 
of  the  Saxon.    Also  that  we  Celts  have  our  besetting  sins. 


230  WILLIAM   SHAKP 

and  that  perfection  in  literature  lies  in  avoiding  excess 
in  any  direction,  even  that  of  one's  own  best  qualities. 
Now  a  question  or  two — because  you  interest  me.  How  in 
English  letters  would  you  write  Pharais  phonetically,  or 
as  near  it  as  our  clumsy  southern  lips  can  compass?  (I 
have  not  "  the  Gaelic,"  and  my  Celtic  blood  is  half  Irish, 
half  Breton.)  And  how  "  Fiona?  "  Is  it  something  like 
Feena?  And  are  you  Miss  or  Mrs.?  And  do  you  live  in 
Edinburgh?  If  ever  you  come  south,  we  hope  you  will 
let  us  know;  for  my  wife  read  your  book  before  I  did, 
and  interested  me  in  it  by  sketching  the  story  for  me. 
Now  see  how  long  a  letter  I  have  written  unto  you,  going 
the  Apostle  one  better,  with  my  own  left  hand :  only  the 
busiest  man  in  England  could  have  found  time  to  do  it. 

Faithfully  yours. 
Grant  Allen. 

Questions  as  to  the  identity  of  the  author  were  already 
'  in  the  air ' ;  "  F.  M's  "  answer  to  Mr.  Allen  shows  that 
the  author  felt '  her  '  security  menaced : 

KiLCBEGGAN,    AeGYLL, 

1894. 

Dear  Mr.  Grant  Allen, 

You  are  very  kind  indeed — both  to  write  to  me,  you 
who  are  so  busy,  and  to  promise  to  do  anything  you  can 
for  my  book.  It  is  very  good  of  you.  Truly,  it  is  the 
busiest  people  who  find  time  to  do  what  is  impossible  to 
idle  folk.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  had  a  letter  of  deeply  gratifying  praise  and 
recognition  from  Mr.  George  Meredith,  who  says  he  finds 
my  work  '  rare  and  distinctive.'  He  writes  one  phrase, 
memorable  as  coming  from  him :  "  Be  sure  that  I  am 
among  those  readers  of  yours  whom  you  kindle." 

Permit  me,  dear  Mr.  Allen,  to  make  a  small  request 
of  you.  If  you  are  really  going  to  be  so  kind  as  to  say 
anything  about  my  book  I  trust  you  will  not  hint  play- 
fully at  any  other  authorship  having  suggested  itself  to 
you — or,  indeed,  at  my  name  being  a  pseudonym.  And, 
sure,  it  will  be  for  pleasure  to  me  if  you  will  be  as  scru- 


THE    PSEUDONYM  231 

pulous  with  Mr.  Meredith  or  anyone  else  in  private,  as  in 
public,  if  chance  should  ever  bring  my  insignificant  self 
into  any  chit-chat. 

My  name  is  really  Fiona  (i.  e.  Fionnaghal — of  which 
it  is  the  diminutive:  as  Maggie,  Nellie,  or  Dair  are  di- 
minutives of  Margaret,  Helen,  or  Alasdair). 

I  hope  to  have  the  great  pleasure  of  seeing  Mrs.  Allen 
and  yourself  when  (as  is  probable)  I  come  south  in  the 
late  autumn  or  sometime  in  November. 

Sincerely  and  gratefully  yours, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

St.  Andbews,  1894. 

Deab  Mr.  Grant  Allen, 

How  generous  you  are!  If  it  were  not  for  fear  of 
what  you  say  about  my  Gaelic  i^hrases  I  should  quote  one 
to  the  effect  that  the  wild  bees  that  make  the  beautiful 
thoughts  in  your  brain  also  leave  their  honey  on  your 
lips. 

Your  Westminster  review  has  given  me  keen  pleasure 
— and  for  everything  in  it,  and  for  all  the  kind  interest 
behind  it,  I  thank  you  cordially. 

What  you  say  about  the  survival  of  folklore  as  a  liv- 
ing heritage  is  absolutely  true — how  true  perhaps  few 
know,  except  those  who  have  lived  among  the  Gaels,  of 
their  blood,  and  speaking  the  ancient  language.  The 
Celtic  paganism  lies  profound  and  potent  still  beneath 
the  fugitive  drift  of  Christianity  and  Civilisation,  as  the 
deep  sea  beneath  the  coming  and  going  of  the  tides.  No 
one  can  understand  the  islander  and  remote  Alban  Gael 
who  ignores  or  is  oblivious  of  the  potent  pagan  and  in- 
deed elementally  barbaric  forces  behind  all  exterior  ap- 
pearances. (This  will  be  more  clearly  shown  in  my  next 
published  book,  a  vol.  of  ten  Celtic  tales  and  episodes 
— with,  I  suppose,  a  more  wide  and  varied  outlook  on 
life,  tlio'  narrow  at  that! — than  either  of  its  predeces- 
sors.) But  excuse  this  rambling.  Your  review  is  all  the 
more  welcome  to  me  as  it  comes  to  me  during  a  visit  to 
friends  at  St.  Andrews,  and  to  me,  alas,  the  East  Coast 


232  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

of  Scotland  is  as  foreign  and  remote  in  all  respects  as 
though  it  were  Jutland  or  Finland.  .  .  . 
Again  with  thanks,  dear  Mr.  Allen, 

Most  sincerely  yours, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

P.  S.  In  his  letter  Mr.  Sharp  says  (writing  to  me  in 
his  delightful  shaky  Gaelic)  that  '  both  Grant  and  Nellie 
Allen  are  clach-chreadJiain.^  It  took  me  some  time  to 
understand  the  compliment.  Clach-chreadh  means 
*  stone  of  clay ' — i.  e.  a  Brick! 


That  Mr.  Grant  Allen  was  half  persuaded  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  author  is  shown  in  the  following  invita- 
tion : 

The  Cboft,  Hindhead, 

July   12,   1894. 

My  deak  Sharp, 

Kindly  excuse  foolscap,  I  am  out  of  note-paper,  and 
on  this  remote  hilltop  can't  easily  get  any.  As  for  the 
type-writing,  I  am  reduced  to  that  altogether,  through 
writer's  cramp,  which  makes  my  right  hand  useless  even 
for  this  machine,  which  I  am  compelled  to  work  with  my 
left  hand  only. — As  to  Pharais,  I  will  confess  I  read  it 
with  some  doubt  as  to  whether  it  was  not  your  own  pro- 
duction ;  and  after  I  had  written  my  letter  to  Miss  Mac- 
leod, I  took  it  to  my  wife  and  said,  "  Now,  if  this  is 
William  Sharp,  what  a  laugh  and  a  crow  he  will  have  over 
me ! "  Le  Gallienne,  who  is  stopping  with  us,  was  sure 
it  was  yours;  but  on  second  thoughts,  I  felt  certain,  in 
spite  of  great  likeness  of  style,  there  was  a  feminine 
touch  in  it,  and  sent  on  my  letter.  All  the  same,  however, 
I  was  not  quite  satisfied  you  were  not  taking  us  in,  espe- 
cially as  your  book  with  Blanche  Willis  Howard  had 
shown  one  how  womanly  a  tone  you  could  adopt  when 
it  suited  you ;  and  I  shan't  feel  absolutely  at  rest  on  the 
subject  till  I  have  seen  the  "  beautiful  lassie  "  in  person. 
If  she  turns  out  to  be  W.  S.  in  disguise,  I  shall  owe  you 


THE    PSEUDONYM  233 

a  bad  one  for  it ;  for  I  felt  my  letter  had  just  that  name- 
less tinge  of  emotion  one  uses  towards  a  woman,  and  a 
beginner,  but  which  would  be  sadly  out  of  place  with  an 
old  hand  like  yourself,  who  has  alreadv  won  his  spurs  in 
the  field  of  letters. 

We  shall  be  glad  to  make  your  cousin's  acquaintance 
(supposing  her  to  exist)  in  October.  It  will  afford  us 
the  opportunity  we  have  long  desired  of  asking  you  and 
Mrs,  Sharp  to  come  and  see  us  in  our  moorland  cottage, 
all  up  among  the  heather.  Indeed,  we  have  had  it  in  our 
minds  all  summer  to  invite  you — you  are  of  those  whom 
one  would  wish  to  know  more  intimately.  I  have  long 
felt  that  the  Children  of  To-morrow  ought  to  segregate 
somehow  from  the  children  of  to-day,  and  live  more  in 
a  world  of  their  own  society. 

With  united  kindest  regards,  and  solemn  threats  of 
vengeance  if  you  are  still  perpetrating  an  elaborate  hoax 

against  me, 

I  am  ever 

Yours  very  sincerely^ 

Grant  Allen. 

Unfortunately,  there  was  an  imperative  reason  for 
bringing  our  residence  at  Rudgwick  to  a  close.  The 
damp,  autumnal  days  in  the  little  cottage  on  its  clay  soil, 
and  the  fatigue  of  constantly  going  up  and  down  to  town 
in  order  to  do  the  work  of  the  Art  critic  for  the  Glasgow 
Herald — which  I  for  some  time  had  undertaken — proved 
too  severe  a  strain  on  me,  and  I  found  that  in  the  winter 
months  I  could  not  remain  at  Phenice  Croft  without  be- 
ing seriously  ill.  So  with  great  reluctance  we  decided 
to  give  it  up  at  midsummer.  I  was  anxious  that  we 
should  seek  for  another  cottage,  on  a  main  line  of  rail- 
way, and  on  sandy  soil ;  but  my  husband  feared  to  make 
another  experiment  and  preferred  that  we  should  make 
our  headquarters  in  London  once  again,  and  that  he 
should  go  into  the  country  whenever  the  mood  necessi- 
tated. But  his  regret  was  deep.  Phenice  Croft  had  seen 
the  birth  of  Fiona  Macleod;  he  had  lived  there  with  an 


234  WILLIAM    SHARP 

intensity  of  inner  life  beyond  anything  he  had  ever  expe- 
rienced. He  knew  that  life  in  town  would  create  diffi- 
culties for  him,  yet  it  seemed  the  wisest  compromise  to 
make.  Our  difficulty  of  choice  was  mainly  one  of  ways 
and  means;  a  considerable  part  of  the  ordinary  work 
was  in  my  hands,  and  I  found  it  difficult  to  do  it  satisfac- 
torily away  from  London.  He  expressed  his  regret  in  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Murray  Gilchrist: 

Phenice  Cboft, 
27th  March,  1894. 

My  dear  Gilchrist, 

You  would  have  heard  from  me  before  this — but  I 
have  been  too  imwell.  Besides,  I  have  had  extreme  pres- 
sure of  matters  requiring  every  possible  moment  I  could 
give.  My  wife's  health,  too,  has  long  been  troubling  me : 
and  we  have  just  decided  that  (greatly  to  my  disappoint- 
ment) we  must  return  to  Hampstead  to  live.  Personally, 
I  regret  the  return  to  town  (or  half  town)  more  than  I 
can  say :  but  the  matter  is  one  of  paramount  importance, 
so  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done.  We  leave  at  midsum- 
mer. As  for  me,  one  of  my  wander-fits  has  come  upon 
me:  the  Spring-madness  has  got  into  the  blood:  the  sight 
of  green  hedgerows  and  budding  leaves  and  the  blue 
smoke  rising  here  and  there  in  the  woodlands  has 
wrought  some  chemic  furor  in  my  brain.  Before  the 
week  is  out  I  hope  to  be  in  Normandy — and  after  a  day 
or  two  by  the  sea  at  Dieppe,  and  then  at  beautiful  and 
romantic  Rouen,  to  get  to  the  green  lanes  and  open 
places,  and  tramp  '■  towards  the  sun.'  I'll  send  you  a 
line  from  somewhere,  if  you  care  to  hear. 

And  now,  enough  about  myself.  I  have  often  meant  to 
write  to  you  in  detail  about  your  Stone-Dragon.  .  .  . 

I  believe  in  you,  camerado  mio,  but  you  must  take  a 
firm  grip  of  the  reins ;  in  a  word,  be  the  driver,  not  the 
driven.  I  think  you  ought  to  be  able  to  write  a  really  ro- 
mantic romance.  I  hope  The  Labyrinth  may  be  this 
book :  if  not,  then  it  will  pave  the  way.  But  I  think  you 
should  see  more  of  actual  life:  and  not  dwell  so  con- 


THE    PSEUDONYM  235 

tinually  in  an  atmosphere  charged  with  your  own  imagin- 
ings— the  glamour  through  which  you  see  life  in  the  main 
at  present. 

Probably  you  are  wise  to  spend  the  greater  part  of 
each  year  as  you  do :  but  part  of  the  year  should  be 
silent  otherwise — say  in  a  town  like  London,  or  Paris,  or 
in  tramping  through  alien  lands,  France  or  Belgium, 
Scandinavia,  or  Germany,  or  Italy,  or  Spain:  if  not,  in 
Scotland,  or  Ireland,  or  upon  our  Isles,  or  remote  coun- 
ties. 

It  is  because  I  believe  in  you  that  I  urge  you  to  beware 
of  your  own  conventions.  Take  your  pen  and  paper,  a 
satchel,  and  go  forth  with  a  light  heart.  The  gods  will 
guide  you  to  strange  thiugs,  and  strange  things  to  you. 
You  ought  to  see  more,  to  feel  more,  to  know  more,  at 
first  hand.  Be  not  afraid  of  excess.  "  The  road  of  excess 
leads  to  the  palace  of  wisdom,"  says  Blake,  and  truly.  .  .  . 
Meanwhile  let  me  send  you  a  word  of  sunshine.  To  be 
alive  and  young  and  in  health,  is  a  boon  so  inestimable 
that  you  ought  to  fall  on  your  knees  among  your  moor- 
land heather  and  thank  the  gods.  Dejection  is  a  demon 
to  be  ruled.  We  cannot  always  resist  his  tyranny,  but 
we  can  always  refuse  to  become  bondagers  to  his  usurpa- 
tion. Look  upon  him  as  an  Afreet  to  be  exorcised  with  a 
cross  of  red-hot  iron.  He  is  a  coward  weakling,  after  all : 
take  him  by  the  tail  and  swing  him  across  the  moor  or 
down  the  valley.    Swing  up  into  your  best. 

Be  brave,  strong,  self-reliant.    Then  you  live. 

Your  friend 
William  Sharp. 

We  took  a  small  flat  in  South  Hampstead  (Rutland 
House.  Greencroft  Gardens)  that  stood  high  enough  for 
us  to  see,  on  clear  days,  the  line  of  the  Surrey  hills  from 
the  windows,  and  to  give  us  a  fine  stretch  of  sky  above 
the  chimney  pots. 

The  night  before  leaving  Plienice  Croft,  a  lovely  still 
evening,  he  wrote  the  little  poem. 


236  WILLIAM    SHARP 

THE    WHITE    PEACE 

It  lies  not  on  the  sunlit  hill 

Nor   in  the  sunlit  gleam 
Nor  ever  in  any  falling  wave 

Nor  ever  in  running  stream — 

But  sometimes  in  the  soul  of  man 

Slow  moving  through  his  pain 
The  moonlight   of  a   perfect  peace 

Floods  heart  and  brain. 

and  sent  it  to  me  in  a  letter  (for  I  had  gone  to  town  in 
advance  of  him),  and  told  me: 

"  Before  I  left  I  took  up  a  handful  of  gravssy  turf,  and 
kissed  it  three  times,  and  then  threw  it  to  the  four  quar- 
ters— so  that  the  Beauty  of  the  Earth  might  be  seen  by 
me  wherever  I  went  and  that  no  beauty  I  had  seen  or 
known  there  should  be  forgotten.  Then  I  kissed  the 
chestnut  tree  on  the  side  lawn  where  I  have  seen  and 
heard  so  much :  from  the  springing  of  the  dream  flowers, 
to  the  surge  of  the  sea  in  Pharais." ^ 

Thence  he  went  to  Scotland  and  wrote  to  me  from  Kil- 
creggan,  where  he  was  staying  with  his  mother  and  sis- 
ters till  I  could  join  him : 

"  I  told  you  about  Whistlefield  1  how  it,  and  all  the 
moorland  parts  about  here  just  now,  is  simply  a  boggy 
sop,  to  say  nothing  of  the  railway  works.  I  hope  we'll 
have  fine  weather  in  lona:  it  will  be  lovely  there  if  we 
go.  .  .  . 

(By  the  way  Mr.  Traill  had  a  gratifying  notice  of 
Pharais  in  the  Graphic  a  week  or  two  ago.) 

I  have  made  friends  here  with  a  Celtic  Islesman  from 
lona  who  is  settled  here:  and  have  learned  some  more 
legends  and  customs  etc.  from  him — also  got  a  copy  of  an 
ancient  MS.  map  of  lona  with  all  its  fields,  divisions, 
bays,  capes,  isles,  etc.  He  says  my  pronunciation  of 
Gaelic  is  not  only  surprisingly  good,  but  is  distinctively 
that  of  the  Isles. 

I  have  learned  the  rune  also  of  the  reading  of  the 
spirit.     The  '  influence '  itself  seems  to  me  purely  hyp- 


THE    PSEUDONYM  237 

notic.     I   was   out   with   this   man   McC on   Saty. 

night  last  in  a  gale,  in  a  small  two-sailed  wherry.  We 
flew  before  the  squalls  like  a  wild  horse,  and  it  was  glori- 
ous with  the  shriek  of  the  wind,  the  heave  and  plunge  of 
the  boat,  and  the  washing  of  the  water  over  the  gun- 
wales. Twice  '  the  black  wind '  came  down  upon  us  out 
of  the  hills,  and  we  were  nearly  driven  under  water. 
He  kept  chanting  and  calling  a  wild  sea-rune,  about  a 
water-demon  of  the  isles,  till  I  thought  I  saw  it  leaping 
from  wave  to  wave  after  us.  Strangely,  he  is  a  different 
man  the  moment  others  are  present.  He  won't  speak  a 
word  of  Gaelic,  nor  be  '  Celtic '  in  any  way,  nor  even 
give  the  word  as  to  what  will  be  doing  in  the  isles  at  this 
time  or  any  other.  This,  however,  I  have  noticed  often: 
and  all  I  have  ever  learned  has  been  in  intimacy  and 
privily  and  more  or  less  casually.  On  Sunday  and  Mon- 
day he  avoided  me,  and  would  scarce  speak :  having  given 
himself  away  and  shown  his  Celtic  side — a  thing  now 
more  than  ever  foreign  to  the  Celtic  nature,  which  has 
become  passionately  reticent.  But  a  few  words  in  Gaelic, 
and  a  private  talk,  put  all  right  again.  Last  night  I  got 
the  rune  of  the  '  Ivnitting  of  the  Knots '  and  some  infor- 
mation about  the  Dalt  and  the  Cho-Alt  about  which  I  was 
not  clear.  He  has  seen  the  Light  of  the  Dead,  and  his 
mother  saw  (before  her  marriage,  and  before  she  even 
saw  the  man  himself)  her  husband  crossing  a  dark  stream 
followed  by  his  four  unborn  children,  and  two  in  his 
arms  whom  afterwards  she  bore  still-born.  ..." 

To  me  the  summer  was  memorable  because  of  my  first 
visit  to  lona.  While  there  he  wrote  part  of  The  Sin- 
Eater,  and  its  prefatory  dedication  to  George  Meredith, 
and  projected  some  of  the  St.  Columba  tales ;  he  renewed 
impressions  of  his  earlier  days  on  the  sacred  isle,  and 
stored  new  experiences  which  he  afterwards  embodied  in 
his  long  essay  on  lona  published  in  The  Divine  Ad- 
venture volume. 

From  that  Isle  of  Dreams  "  Fiona "  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Tynan-Hinkson : 


238  WILLIAM    SHARP 

Isle  of  Iona, 
Dear   Mrs.   HiNKSON,  September,  1894. 

I  am,  in  summer  and  autumn,  so  much  of  a  wanderer 
through  the  Isles  and  Western  Highlands  that  letters 
sometimes  are  long  in  reaching  me.  But  your  kind  note 
(and  enclosure)  has  duly  followed  me  from  Edinburgh 
to  Loch  Goil  in  eastern  Argyll  and  thence  deviously  here. 
It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  read  what  you  have 
to  say  in  the  Illus.  London  News  or  elsewhere,  and  I 
thank  j^ou.  I  wish  you  could  be  here.  Familiar  with  your 
poetry  as  I  am,  I  know  how  you  would  rejoice  not  only 
in  the  Iona  that  is  the  holy  Icolmkill  but  also  in  the  Iona 
that  is  Ithona,  the  ancient  Celtic  Isle  of  the  Druids. 
There  is  a  beauty  here  that  no  other  place  has,  so  unique 
is  it.  Of  course  it  does  not  appeal  to  all.  The  Sound  of 
Iona  divides  the  Island  from  the  wild  Ross  of  Mull  by 
no  more  than  a  mile  of  water;  and  it  is  on  this  eastern 
side  that  the  village  and  the  ancient  Cathedral  and  ruined 
Nunnery  etc.  stand.  Here  it  is  as  peaceful  as,  on  the 
west  side,  it  is  wild  and  grand.  I  read  your  letter  last 
night,  at  sunset,  while  I  was  lying  on  the  Cnoc-an-Angeal, 
the  hillock  on  the  west  where  the  angel  appeared  to  St. 
Columba.  To  the  north  lay  the  dim  features  of  the 
Outer  Hebrides:  to  the  west  an  unbroken  wilderness  of 
waves  till  they  fall  against  Labrador:  to  the  south, 
though  invisible,  the  coastline  of  Ireland.  There  was 
no  sound,  save  the  deep  hollow  voice  of  the  sea,  and  a 
strange  reverberation  in  a  hollow  cave  underground.  It 
was  a  very  beautiful  sight  to  see  the  day  wane  across  the 
ocean,  and  then  to  move  slowly  homeward  through  the 
gloaming,  and  linger  awhile  by  the  Street  of  the  Dead 
near  the  ruined  Abbey  of  Columba.  But  these  Isles  are 
so  dear  to  me  that  I  think  everyone  must  feel  alike! 

I  remain 

Sincerely  yours, 
Fiona  Macleod. 

P.  S.     I  enclose  a  gillieflower  from  close  to  St.  Colum- 

ba's  tomb. 


THE    PSEUDONYM  239 

In  November  came  a  letter  from  Mr.  Stedman : 

137  West  78th  St., 

My  deaeest  Friend  beyond  Seas,  ^^^  ^°^^* 

For  this  in  truth  you  now  are.  An  older  poet  and 
comrade  than  you  once  held  that  place  in  my  thoughts, 
but  Time  and  Work  have  somehow  laid  the  sword  be- 
tween us — and  neither  of  us  is  to  blame.  I  never  so  well 
obeyed  Emerson's  advice  to  recruit  our  friendship  (as 
we  grow  older)  as  when  I  won,  I  scarcely  know  how  or 
why,  your  unswerving  and  ever  increasing  affection.  In 
truth,  again,  it  has  been  of  the  greatest  service  to  me, 
during  the  most  trying  portion  of  my  life — the  period  in 
which  you  have  given  me  so  much  warmth  and  air — and 
never  has  it  been  of  more  worth  than  now  you  might 
well  think  otherwise. 

My  birthday  began  for  me  with  the  "  Sharp  Number  " 
of  The  Chapbook.  I  don't  know  what  fact  of  it  gave  me 
the  more  pleasure  (it  came  at  a  time  when  I  had  a-plenty 
to  worry  me) — the  beautiful  autographic  tribute  to  my- 
self or  the  honour  justly  paid  to  my  dear  Esquire-at- 
arms,  whose  superb  portrait  is  the  envy  of  our  less  fortu- 
nate Yankee-torydons.  The  last  five  years  have  placed 
you  so  well  to  the  front,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  that 
I  can  receive  no  more  satisfying  tributes  than  those 
which  you  have  given  me  before  the  world.  I  feel,  too, 
that  it  is  only  during  these  years  that  you  have  come  to 
your  full  literary  strength,  there  is  nothing  which  the 
author  of  your  "  Ballads  "  and  of  "  Vistas  "  cannot  do. 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  which  you  will  be  glad  to  hear, 
that  your  letter  lay  by  my  plate,  when  I  came  down  to 
breakfast  on  the  morning  of  October  the  eight!  The 
stars  in  their  courses  must  be  in  league  with  you.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Stedman  sends  her  love,  and  says  that  your  por- 
trait is  that  of  a  man  grown  handsomer,  and,  she  trusts, 
more  discreet  and  ascetic !  The  month  and  this  letter  are 
now  ending  with  midnight. 

Ever  affectionately  yours 

Edmund  C.  Stedman. 


240  WILLIAM    SHARP 

The  Chap-book  was  a  little  semi-monthly  issue  pub- 
lished by  Messrs.  Stone  and  Kimball,  Chicago.  No.  9, 
the  "  William  Sharp  "  number,  appeared  on  the  15th  of 
September,  three  days  after  that  author's  birthday.  It 
contained  the  reproduction  of  an  autograph  signed  poem, 
by  William  Sharp  "  To  Edmimd  Clarence  Stedman  in 
Birthday  Greeting  8th  October " ;  an  appreciation  of 
William  Sharp's  Poems  by  Bliss  Carmen;  "  The  Birth  of 
a  Soul "  one  of  the  Dramatic  Interludes  afterwards  in- 
cluded in  Vistas,  and  a  portrait  of  the  Author, 

Notwithstanding  the  paramount  interest  to  the  author 
of  the  "  F.  M,"  expression  of  himself  as,  "  W.  S."  he  was 
not  idle.  After  a  visit  to  Mr.  Murray  Gilchrist  in  the 
latter's  home  on  the  Derbyshire  moors,  W.  S.  wrote  his 
story  "  The  Gypsy  Christ,"  founded  on  a  tradition  which 
he  had  learned  from  his  gipsy  friends,  and  set  in  a  weird 
moorland  surroundings.  In  Harper's  there  appeared  a 
description  of  the  night-wanderers  on  the  Thames'  em- 
bankment, pathetic  frequenters  of  "  The  Hotel  of  the 
Beautiful  Star."  The  July  number  of  The  Portfolio  con- 
sisted of  a  monograph  by  him  on  "  Fair  Women  in  Paint- 
ing and  Poetry"  (afterwards  published  in  1)ookform  by 
Messrs.  Seeley)  which  he,  at  first,  intended  to  dedicate 
to  Mr.  George  Meredith.  His  '  second  thought '  was  ap- 
proved of  by  the  novelist,  who  wrote  his  acknowledg- 
ment: 

"  You  do  an  elusive  bit  of  work  with  skill.  It  seems  to 
me,  that  the  dedication  was  wisely  omitted.  Thousands 
of  curdling  Saxons  are  surly  almost  to  the  snarl  at  the 
talk  about  '  woman.'  Next  to  the  Anarchist,  we  are 
hated." 

The  month  of  July  was  saddened  by  the  death  of 
our  intimate  and  valued  friend  Walter  Pater ;  upon  that 
friend  and  his  work  William  Sharp  wrote  a  long  appre- 
ciation which  appeared  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly.  An- 
other death,  at  the  year-end,  caused  him  great  regret, 
that  of  Christina  Rossetti,  whom  he  had  held  in  deep 
regard.  He  felt,  as  he  wrote  to  her  surviving  brother: 
"  One  of  the  rarest  and  sweetest  of  English  singers  is 


THE    PSEUDONYM  241 

silent  now.  1882  and  1894  were  evil  years  for  English 
poetry."  Later  he  wrote  a  careful  study  of  her  verse 
for  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

As  a  Christmas  card  that  year  he  gave  me  a  little  book 
of  old  wood-cut  illustrations,  reproduced  and  printed  on 
lona.  On  the  inside  of  the  cover  he  wrote  what  he  held 
to  be  his  creed.    It  is  this : 

Credo 

"  The  Universe  is  eternally,  omnipresently  and  con- 
tinuously filled  with  the  breath  of  God. 

"  Every  breath  of  God  creates  a  new  convolution  in  the 
brain  of  Nature :  and  with  every  moment  of  change  in 
the  brain  of  Nature,  new  loveliness  is  wrought  upon  the 
earth. 

"  Every  breath  of  God  creates  a  new  convolution  in 
the  brain  of  the  Human  Spirit,  and  with  every  moment 
of  change  in  the  brain  of  the  Human  Sj^irit,  new  hopes, 
aspirations,  dreams,  are  wrought  within  the  Soul  of  the 
Living. 

"  And  there  is  no  Evil  anywhere  in  the  Light  of  this 
creative  Breath :  but  only,  everywhere,  a  redeeming  from 
Evil,  a  winning  towards  Good." 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    MOUNTAIN    LOVERS 

The  Sin-Eater 

It  was  soon  evident  that  the  noise  and  confused  mag- 
netism of  the  great  City  weighed  disastrously  on  William 
Sharp.    At  the  New  Year,  1895,  he  wrote  to  a  friend: 

"  London  I  do  not  like,  though  I  feel  its  magnetic 
charm,  or  sorcery.  I  suffer  here.  The  gloom,  the  streets, 
the  obtrusion  and  intrusion  of  people,  all  conspire 
against  thought,  dream,  true  living.  It  is  a  vast  reservoir 
of  all  the  evils  of  civilised  life  with  a  climate  which  makes 
me  inclined  to  believe  that  Dante  came  here  instead  of  to 
Hades." 

The  strain  of  the  two  kinds  of  work  he  was  attempting 
to  do,  the  immediate  pressure  of  the  imaginative  work 
became  unbearable,  "  the  call  of  the  sea,"  imperative. 

As  he  has  related  in  "  Earth,  Fire  and  Water  " :  "  It 
was  all  important  for  me  not  to  leave  in  January,  and  in 
one  way  I  was  not  ill-pleased  for  it  was  a  wild  winter. 
But  one  night  I  awoke  hearing  a  rushing  sound  in  the 
street,  the  sound  of  water.  I  would  have  thought  no 
more  of  it  had  I  not  recognised  the  troubled  sound  of 
the  tide,  and  the  sucking  and  lapsing  of  the  flow  in  muddy 
hollows.  I  rose  and  looked  out.  It  was  moonlight,  and 
there  was  no  water.  When  after  sleepless  hours  I  rose 
in  the  grey  morning  I  heard  the  splash  of  waves,  I  could 
not  write  or  read  and  at  last  I  could  not  rest.  On  the 
afternoon  of  that  day  the  waves  dashed  up  against  the 
house." 

An  incident  showed  me  that  his  malaise  was  curable  by 
one  method  only.  A  telegram  had  come  for  him  that 
morning,  and  I  took  it  to  his  study.  I  could  get  no  an- 
swer.   I  knocked,  louder,  then  louder, — at  last  he  opened 

242 


THE    MOUNTAIN   LOVEES  243 

the  door  with  a  curiously  dazed  look  in  his  face.  I  ex- 
plained. He  answered  "  Ah,  I  could  not  hear  you  for  the 
sound  of  the  waves !  "  It  was  the  first  indication  to  me, 
in  words,  of  what  troubled  him. 

That  evening  he  started  for  Glasgow  en  route  for  Ar- 
ran,  where  I  knew  he  would  find  peace. 

"  The  following  morning  we  (for  a  kinswoman  was 
with  me)  stood  on  the  Greenock  pier  waiting  for  the 
Hebridean  steamer  and  before  long  were  landed  on  an 
island,  almost  the  nearest  we  could  reach  that  I  loved  so 
well.  .  .  .  That  night,  with  the  sea  breaking  less  than  a 
score  of  yards  from  where  I  lay,  I  slept,  though  for  three 
nights  I  had  not  been  able  to  sleep.  When  I  woke  the 
trouble  was  gone." 

There  is  a  curious  point  in  his  telling  of  this  episode. 
Although  the  essay  is  written  over  the  signature  of  "  Fi- 
ona Macleod  "  and  belongs  to  that  particular  phase  of 
work,  nevertheless  it  is  obviously  "  William  Sharp  "  who 
tells  the  story,  for  the  "  we  "  who  stood  on  the  pier  at 
Greenock  is  himself  in  his  dual  capacity ;  "  his  kins- 
woman "  is  his  other  self. 

He  wrote  to  me  on  reaching  his  destination : 

CoRRiE,  Isle  of  Abran, 

20: 2:  1895. 

"You  will  have  had  my  telegram  of  my  safe  arrival 
here.  There  was  no  snow  to  speak  of  along  the  road 
from  Brodick  (for  no  steamer  comes  here) — so  I  had 
neither  to  ride  nor  sail  as  threatened :  indeed,  owing  to 
the  keen  frost  (which  has  made  the  snow  like  powder) 
there  is  none  on  the  mountains  except  in  the  hollows, 
though  the  summits  and  flanks  are  crystal  white  with 
a  thin  veil  of  frozen  snow. 

It  was  a  most  glorious  sail  from  Ardrossan.  The  sea 
was  a  sheet  of  blue  and  purple  washed  with  gold.  Ar- 
ran  rose  above  all  like  a  dream  of  beauty.  I  was  the 
sole  passenger  in  the  steamer,  for  the  whole  island! 
What  made  the  drive  of  six  miles  more  beautiful  than 
ever  was  the  extraordinary  fantastic  beauty  of  the  frozen 


244  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

waterfalls  and  bums  caught  as  it  were  in  the  leap. 
Sometimes  these  immense  icicles  hung  straight  and  long, 
like  a  Druid's  beard:  sometimes  in  wrought  sheets  of 
gold,  or  magic  columns  and  spaces  of  crystal. 

Sweet  it  was  to  smell  the  pine  and  the  heather  and 
bracken,  and  the  salt  weed  upon  the  shore.  The  touch 
of  dream  was  upon  everything,  from  the  silent  hills  to  the 
brooding  herons  by  the  shore. 

After  a  cup  of  tea,  I  wandered  up  the  heights  behind. 
In  these  vast  solitudes  peace  and  joy  came  hand  in  hand 
to  meet  me.  The  extreme  loneliness,  especially  when  I 
was  out  of  sight  of  the  sea  at  last,  and  could  hear  no 
more  the  calling  of  the  tide,  and  only  the  sough  of  the 
wind,  was  like  balm.  Ah,  those  eloquent  silences:  the 
deep  pain-joy  of  utter  isolation :  the  shadowy  glooms  and 
darkness  and  mystery  of  night-fall  among  the  moun- 
tains. 

In  that  exquisite  solitude  I  felt  a  deep  exaltation  grow. 
The  flowing  of  the  air  of  the  hills  laved  the  parched 
shores  of  my  heart.  .  .  . 

There  is  something  of  a  strange  excitement  in  the 
knowledge  that  two  people  are  here :  so  intimate  and  yet 
so  far-off.  For  it  is  with  me  as  though  Fiona  were  asleep 
in  another  room.  I  catch  myself  listening  for  her  step 
sometimes,  for  the  sudden  opening  of  a  door.  It  is  un- 
awaredly  that  she  whispers  to  me.  I  am  eager  to  see 
what  she  will  do — particularly  in  The  Mountain  Lovers. 
It  seems  passing  strange  to  be  here  with  her  alone  at 
last.  ..." 

The  Mountain  Lovers  was  published  in  the  summer  of 
1895  by  Mr.  John  Lane.  A  copy  of  it  was  sent  to  Mr. 
George  Meredith  with  the  following  letter : 

9  Uppee  Coltbbidge  Terrace, 

mubeatfield. 

Deak  Sir, 

Will  you  gratify  one  of  your  most  loyal  readers  by  the 
acceptance  of  the  accompanying  book?    Nothing  helped 


^X^^ 


Fac-simile  of  an  autograph  "Fiona  Macleod"  poem 
by  William  Sharp 


THE    MOUNTAIN   LOVERS  245 

me  so  much,  or  gave  me  so  much  enduring  pleasure,  as 
your  generous  message  to  me  about  my  first  book,  Plia- 
rais,  which  you  sent  through  my  cousin,  Mr.  William 
Sharp. 

Naturally,  I  was  eager  it  should  appeal  to  you — not 
only  because  I  have  long  taken  keener  delight  in  your 
writings  than  in  those  of  any  living  author,  but  also 
because  you  are  Prince  of  Celtland.  .  .  . 

I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  read,  and  perhaps  care  for, 
The  Mountain  Lovers.  It  is  not  a  story  of  the  Isles,  like 
Pliarais,  but  of  the  remote  hill-country  in  the  far  north- 
west. I  know  how  busy  you  are:  so  do  not  consider  it 
necessary  to  acknowledge  either  the  book  or  this  letter. 
Still,  if  some  happy  spirit  move  you,  I  need  not  say  that 
even  the  briefest  line  from  you  would  be  a  deep  pleasure 
to 

Yours,  with  gratitude  and  homage, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

Acknowledgment  came  swiftly: 

Box  Hill,  July  13,  1895. 

Deae  Madam, 

If  I  could  have  written  on  any  matter  out  of  my  press 
of  work  when  I  received  your  Pliarais,  there  would  have 
been  no  delay  with  me  to  thank  you  for  such  a  gift  to 
our  literature.  This  book  on  the  "  Mountains  "  promises 
as  richly.  Whether  it  touches  equally  deep,  I  cannot  yet 
say.  I  find  the  same  thrill  in  it,  as  of  the  bard  on  the 
three-stringed  harp,  and  the  wild  western  colour  over  sea 
and  isles ;  true  spirit  of  the  mountains.  How  rare  this  is ! 
I  do  not  know  it  elsewhere.  Be  sure  that  I  am  among 
those  readers  of  yours  whom  you  kindle.  I  could  write 
more,  but  I  have  not  recovered  from  the  malady  of  the 
degout  de  la  plume,  consequent  on  excess — and  I  pray 
that  it  may  never  fall  on  you.  For  though  it  is  wisdom 
at  my  age  to  cease  to  write,  it  is  not  well  to  be  taught  to 
cease  by  distaste.  That  is  a  giving  of  oneself  to  the 
enemy.    I  have  to  be  what  I  am,  and  I  disclose  it  to  win 


246  AVILLIAM   SHAEP 

your  pardon  for  my  inexpressiveness  when  I  am  warmly 
sensible  of  a  generous  compliment. 

I  am,  Yours  most  faithful 

George  Meredith. 

It  was  in  1895  that  the  Omar  Khayyam  Club  under  the 
Presidentship  of  Mr.  Edward  Clodd,  who  was  an  old  per- 
sonal friend  of  Mr.  Meredith,  elected  to  hold  its  summer 
dinner  at  the  Burford  Bridge  Hotel.  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy, 
Mr.  Watts-Dunton,  Mr.  George  Gissing  and  William 
Sharp  were  among  the  guests.  Mr.  Clodd  knew  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  persuade  Mr.  Meredith  to  be  present 
at  the  dinner.  Nevertheless  he  lured  him  to  the  Hotel, 
and  when  coffee  was  served,  (I  quote  from  a  contempo- 
rary account)  "the  beautiful  face  of  the  great  novelist 
appeared  within  the  doorway,  and  he  was  welcomed  with 
enthusiasm  by  all  present.  The  president  extended  to 
Mr.  Meredith  the  right  hand  of  fellowship  on  behalf  of 
the  Club,  in  a  charming  and  eloquent  speech  not  devoid 
of  pathos.  Mr.  Meredith  in  his  reply  declared  that  Mr. 
Clodd  was  the  most  amiable  of  Chairmen  but  the  most 
dastardly  of  deceivers.  Never  before,  he  added,  had  he 
been  on  his  legs  to  make  a  speech  in  public,  now  before 
he  knew  it  he  was  bustled  over  the  first  fence,  and  found 
himself  overrunning  the  hounds.  '  I  have  my  hands  on 
the  fellow  at  this  moment '  he  continued  laughingly  '  and 
I  could  turn  on  him  and  rend  him,  but  I  spare  him.' 
After  a  few  graceful  and  characteristic  sentences  con- 
cerning the  Club  and  its  object,  and  Omar,  and  expressing 
his  appreciation  of  his  reception  Mr.  Meredith  said  in 
conclusion :  '  I  thank  you  from  my  heart,  everyone  of 
you.' " 

Much  to  William  Sharp's  satisfaction  he  was  elected 
member  of  the  Omar  Khayyam  Club  in  the  autumn  of  the 
same  year.  On  receipt  of  the  annoimcement  of  the  fact 
the  new  member  wrote  to  the  President : 


THE    MOUNTxVIN    LOVERS  247 

Rutland  House, 
2d  Nov.,  1895. 

Dear  Brother-in-Omar, 

On  my  return  from  Scotland  the  other  day  I  found  a 
note  informing  me  that  I  had  been  elected  an  Omarian 
on  the  nomination  of  your  distinguished  self. 

My  thanks,  cher  confrere.  'A  drop  of  my  special  grape 
to  you,'  as  Omar  might  say,  if  he  were  now  among  us 
with  a  Hibernian  accent !  Herewith  I  post  to  you  another 
babe,  born  into  this  ungrateful  world  so  recently  as  yes- 
terday. .  .  .  Such  as  it  is,  I  hope  you  may  like  it.  "  Ecce 
Puella "  itself  was  written  at  white  heat — and  ran  in 
ripples  off  the  brain :  and  so  is  j^robably  readable. 

"  Fragments  from  The  Lost  Journals  of  Piero  di 
Cosimo  "  when  they  appeared  (some  few  years  ago)  won 
the  high  praise  of  Pater — but  perhaps  their  best  distinc- 
tion is  that  they  took  in  the  cocksure  and  levelled  the 
Omniscient.  One  critical  wight  complained  that  I  was 
not  literal  (probably  from  the  lack  of  knowledge  of  medi- 
eval Italian),  which  he  clinched  by  the  remark  that  he 
had  compared  my  version  with  the  original!  I  see  that 
Silas  Hocking  has  just  published  a  book  called  "  All  men 
are  liars."  I  would  fain  send  a  copy  to  that  critic,  even 
now.  By  the  way,  my  cousin  Miss  Fiona  Macleod  wrote 
to  me  the  other  day  for  your  address.  I  understand  she 
wanted  to  send  you  a  copy  of  her  new  book.  If  you  get 
it,  you  should,  as  a  folk-lorist,  read  the  titular  story,  The 
Sin-Eater. 

My  wife  joins  with  me  in  cordial  regards,  and  I  am 

Sincerely  yours, 
William  Sharp. 

The  President  replied: 

19  Cableton  Road, 

TUFNELL  Pabk 

5th  Nov. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

It  is  an  addition  to  the  pleasant  memories  of  my  year 
of  office  to  know  that  you  are  of  the  elect.  You  come  in 
with  Lang  and  Gissing.  By  the  way,  the  next  dinner  is 
fixed  for  the  sixth  proximo.    And  it  is  an  addition  to  a 


248  WILLIAM    SHARP 

burden  of  obligation  willingly  borne  which  your  kind  gift 
imposes.  For  work  such  as  yours  has  unending  charm 
for  me,  because  while  Science  was  my  first  love  and  is 
still  my  dear  mistress,  I  love  her  more  for  what  she  sug- 
gests than  what  she  reveals.  Facts,  unrelated,  bore  me : 
only  in  their  significance  does  one  get  abiding  interest. 
That  is  why  your  '  Vistas '  and  such  like  delicate,  throb- 
bing things  attract  me.  Some  of  these  were  especially 
welcome  on  a  recent  dull  Sunday  by  our  '  cold  restless 
sea,'  on  which  in  bright  days  you  promise  to  come  with 
Allen  to  look  at  it  from  my  window.  Your  delicious  story 
of  the  critic  sent  me  straight  to  the  Journal  of  di  Cosimo. 
How  well  you  produce  the  archaic  flavour :  the  style  has 
a  Celtic  ring  about  it.  As  for  '  Ecce  Puella '  I  await  the 
hearing  of  it  from  the  voice  of  a  '  puella  '  who  likes  your 
work.  I  was  at  Meredith's  on  Sunday  week:  he  keeps 
wonderfully  well  for  him :  his  talk  is  bright  as  his  face  is 
beautiful.  He  has  his  fling  at  me  over  the  Burford 
Bridge  deception,  and  says  that  my  duplicity  cost  you  all 
a  fine  speech.  I  tell  him  that  the  speech  we  had  was  good 
enough  for  '  the  likes  of  us.'  So  Fiona  Macleod  is  your 
cousin!  She  is  of  the  '  elect.'  I  take  it  as  most  kind  of 
her  to  send  me  her  new  book,  which  I  have  as  yet  but 
partly  read,  and  am  about  to  acknowledge.  She  holds  a 
weird,  strong  pen,  and  will  help  the  Celt  to  make  further 
conquest  of  the  dullard  Saxons.  Meredith  and  I  talked 
about  her  "  Mountain  Lovers  "  when  I  was  with  him  in 
August. 

Kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Sharp  and  yourself. 

Yours  sincerely, 
Edward  Clodd. 

In  the  Autumn  of  1894  we  had  come  in  touch  with  Pro- 
fessor and  Mrs.  Patrick  Geddes  of  Edinburgh,  and  a 
friendship  with  far  reaching  results  for  "  Fiona  Mac- 
leod "  arose  between  the  two  men.  Both  were  idealists, 
keen  students  of  life  and  nature ;  cosmopolitan  in  outlook 
and  interest,  they  were  also  ardent  Celts  who  believed  in 
the  necessity  of  preserving  the  finer  subtle  qualities  and 


THE    MOUNTAIN   LOVERS  249 

the  spiritual  heritage  of  their  race  against  the  encroach- 
ing predominance  of  materialistic  ideas  and  aims  of  the 
day. 

It  was  the  desire  and  dream  of  such  idealists  and 
thinkers  as  Professor  Geddes,  and  those  associated  with 
him,  to  preserve  and  nurture  what  is  of  value  and  of 
spiritual  beauty  in  the  race,  so  that  it  should  fuse  into 
and  work  with,  or  become  part  of,  the  great  acquisitions 
and  marvellous  discoveries  of  modern  thought.  To  hold 
to  the  essential  beauty  and  thought  of  the  past,  while 
going  forward  eagerly  to  meet  the  new  and  ever  increas- 
ing knowledge,  was  the  desire  of  both  men.  In  their  aims 
they  were  in  sympathy  with  one  another ;  their  manner  of 
approach  and  methods  of  work  were  different.  Patrick 
Geddes — biologist — was  concerned  primarily  with  the 
practical  and  scientific  expression  of  his  ideals ;  William 
Sharp  was  concerned  primarily  with  expression  through 
the  art  of  words.  Mutually  sympathetic,  they  were  eager 
to  find  some  way  of  collaboration. 

It  was  the  dream  of  Professor  Geddes  to  restore  to 
Scotland  something  of  its  older  pre-eminence  in  the  world 
of  thought,  to  recreate  in  Edinburgh  an  active  centre 
and  so  arrest  the  tremendous  centralising  power  of  the 
metropolis  of  London;  to  replace  the  stereotyped  meth- 
ods of  education  by  a  more  vital  and  synthetic  form; 
and  to  encourage  national  art  and  literature.  Towards 
the  carrying  out  of  these  aims  he  had  built  a  University 
Hall  and  Settlement  for  students,  artists,  etc.  Per- 
haps the  most  important  of  his  schemes,  certainly  the 
most  important  from  the  modern  scientific  point  of  view 
was  the  planning  of  the  Outlook  Tower — once  an  observ- 
atory— now  an  educational  museum  on  the  Castle  Rock 
commanding  a  magnificent  view  of  the  city,  of  the  sur- 
rounding country,  of  sea  and  sky ;  "  an  institution  that 
is  designed  to  be  a  method  of  viewing  the  problems  of 
the  science  of  life."  According  to  Professor  Geddes  "  Our 
little  scholastic  colony  in  the  heart  of  Edinburgh  symbol- 
ises a  movement  which  while  national  to  the  core,  is  really 
cosmopolitan  in  its  intellectual  reach." 


250  WILLIAM   SHARP 

Grouped  with  this  scientific  effort,  was  the  aim  to  re- 
vive the  Celtic  influence  in  art  and  literature;  and  the 
little  colony  contained  a  number  of  men  and  women  who 
were  working  to  that  end;  notably  among  the  painters 
were  James  Cadenhead,  Charles  Mackie,  Robert  Bums, 
John  Duncan,  also  Pittendrigh  MacGillivray  the  sculptor ; 
and  among  the  writers  Professor  Arthur  Thomson,  Dr. 
Douglas  Hyde,  Nora  Hopper,  Rosa  Mulholland,  A.  Per- 
cival  Graves,  S.  R.  Crockett,  Elisee  Reclus,  Alexander 
Carmichael,  Victor  Branford,  Professor  Patrick  Geddes, 
F.  M.  and  W.  S. 

Into  that  eager  and  sympathetic  atmosphere  of  linked 
thought  and  aim  my  husband  and  I  were  speedily  drawn ; 
and  before  long  a  Publishing  Firm  was  established  for 
the  issuing  of  Celtic  Literature  and  Works  on  Science. 
To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Geddes  was  confided  the  important  se- 
cret relating  to  the  personality  of  "  Fiona  Macleod,"  to 
the  thoughts  and  ideals  that  unlay  '  her '  projected  work. 
It  was  arranged  that  William  Sharp  should  be  the  Man- 
ager in  the  Firm  of  Patrick  Geddes  &  Colleagues  (which 
post  he  very  soon  relinquished  for  that  of  Literary  Ad- 
viser) ;  an  arrangement  which  made  it  possible  for  that 
particular  Colleague  to  publish  three  of  his  "  F.  M." 
books  under  his  immediate  supervision  and  from  what 
was  then  one  of  the  centres  of  the  Celtic  movement. 
This  post,  naturally,  necessitated  frequent  visits  to 
Edinburgh.  For  the  month  of  August  1895  we  took 
a  flat  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  University  settle- 
ment so  that  we  might  share  actively  in  the  Summer 
Session. 

It  was  an  interesting  experience.  The  students  came 
from  England,  Scotland,  France,  Italy,  and  Germany; 
among  the  lecturers  in  addition  to  Professors  Geddes  and 
Arthur  Thomson  were  Elisee  Reclus  the  geographer  and 
his  brother  Elie  Reclus,  Edmond  Demolins  and  Abbe 
Klein. 

W.  S.  prepared  his  lectures  in  rough  outline.  His  in- 
experience in  such  work  led  him  to  plan  them  as  though 
he  were  drafting  out  twelve  books,  with  far  more  mate- 


THE    MOUNTAIN   LOVERS  251 

rial  than  he  could  possibly  use  in  the  time  at  his  disposal. 
His  subject  was  "  Art  and  Life  "  divided  into  ten  lec- 
tures : 

L  Life  &  Art :  Art  &  Nature :  Nature. 
II.  Disintegration :  Degeneration :  Regeneration. 

III.  The  Return  to  Nature :  In  Art,  in  Literature.    The 

Literary  Outlook  in  England  &  America. 

IV.  The  Celtic  Renascence,  Ossian,  Matthew  Arnold, 

The  Ancient  Celtic  Writers. 
V.  The    Celtic    Renascence.      Contemporary.      The 

School  of  Celtic  Ornament. 
VL  The  Science  of  Criticism:  What  it  is,  what  it  is 
not.    The  Critical  Ideal. 
VIL  Ernest  Hello. 
VIII.  The  Drama  of  Life,  and  Dramatises. 
IX.  The  Ideals  of  Art — pagan.  Mediaeval,  modern. 
X.  The  Literary  Ideal — Pagan,  Mediaeval.    The  Mod- 
ern Ideal. 

One  lecture  only  was  delivered;  for  during  it  he  was 
seized  with  a  severe  heart  attack  and  all  his  notes  fell 
to  the  ground.  It  was  with  the  greatest  effort  that  he 
was  able  to  bring  the  lecture  to  a  close:  and  he  realised 
that  he  must  not  attempt  to  continue  the  course;  the 
risk  was  too  great.  Therefore,  while  I  remained  in  Edin- 
burgh to  keep  open  house  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
students,  he  went  to  the  little  Pettycur  Inn  at  Kinghorn, 
on  the  north  side  of  The  Firth  of  Forth,  till  I  was  able 
to  join  him  at  Tighnabruaich  in  the  Kyles  of  Bute  where 
we  had  taken  a  cottage  with  his  mother  and  sisters  for 
September. 

Two  volumes  of  short  stories  were  published  in  the 
late  Autumn.  It  was  the  writer's  great  desire  that  work 
should  be  issued  by  W.  S.  and  by  F.  M.  about  the  same 
time;  in  part  to  sustain  what  reputation  belonged  to  his 
older  Literary  self,  and  in  part  to  help  to  preserve  the 
younger  literary  self's  incognito.  Ecce  Puella  published 
by  Mr.  Elkin  Matthew  for  W.  S.  was  a  collection  of 


252  WILLIAM    SHARP 

stories  &c.  that  had  been  written  at  different  times  and 
issued  in  various  magazines,  and  prefaced  by  a  revised 
and  shortened  version  of  the  Monograph  on  "  Fair 
Women  in  Painting  and  Poetry."  It  contained  among 
other  short  stories  one  entitled  "  The  Sister  of  Com- 
passion," dedicated  "  to  that  Sister  of  compassion  for  all 
suffering  animals,  Mrs.  Moua  Caird,"  our  dear  friend. 
The  other  volume  contained  the  first  series  of  barbaric 
tales  and  myths  of  old  Celtic  days,  "  recaptured  in 
dreams,"  that  followed  in  quick  succession  from  the  pen 
of  Fiona  Macleod.  The  Sin-Eater  was  the  first  of  the 
three  F.  M.  books  published  by  the  new  Scoto-Celtic 
publishers.  The  Author  was  gratified  by  favourable 
reviews  from  important  journals,  and  by  letters,  from 
which  I  select  two. 

The  first  is  from  Mr.  Hamilton  W.  Mabie : 

The  Outlook, 
13  AsTOR  Place, 
May  23d,   1897. 

My  dear  Friend, 

The  Sin-Eater  came  in  holiday  week  and  was  one  of 
my  most  welcome  remembrances.  I  have  read  it  with 
deep  pleasure,  almost  with  envy,  so  full  is  it  of  the 
stuff  which  makes  literature.  It  has  the  vitality  and 
beauty  of  a  rich  and  living  imagination.  The  secrets 
of  the  spirit  are  in  it,  and  that  fellowship  with  the  pro- 
founder  experiences  which  gets  at  the  heart  of  a  race. 
I  have  not  forgotten  your  kind  words  about  my  own 
work;  words  which  gave  me  new  heart  and  hope.  For 
you  are  the  very  tyi3e  of  man  to  whose  mind  I  should 
like  to  appeal.  The  judgment  of  Mrs.  Sharp,  which  you 
quote,  gave  me  sincere  pleasure.  To  get  the  attention 
of  the  few  for  whose  opinion  one  cares  most  is  a  piece 
of  great  good  fortune;  to  really  find  one's  way  to  their 
hearts  is  best  of  all.  I  am  looking  forward  to  a  good 
long  talk  with  you.  I  wish  you  were  here  today.  This 
is  a  divine  May;  balmy,  fragrant,  fresh;  as  if  it  had 
never  been  here  before.  There  is  enough  soul  in  Miss 
Macleod's  stories  to  set  up  a  generation  of  average  nov- 


THE    MOUNTAIN   LOVERS  253 

elists.  The  work  of  the  real  writer  seems  to  me  a  mira- 
cle; something  from  the  sources  of  our  life.  I  have 
found,  however,  so  few  among  all  my  good  literary 
friends  who  feel  al)out  literature  as  I  do  that  I  have 
felt  at  times  as  if  I  had  no  power  of  putting  into  words 
what  lies  in  my  heart.  This  does  not  mean  that  I  have 
missed  appreciation;  on  the  contrary,  I  have  had  more 
than  I  deserve.  But  most  of  the  younger  men  here  re- 
gard literature  so  exclusively  as  a  craft  and  so  little  as 
a  revelation  that  I  have  often  missed  the  kind  of  fellow- 
shij)  which  you  gave  me.  The  deeper  feeling  is,  how- 
ever, coming  back  to  us  in  the  work  of  some  of  the  newest 
men — Bliss  Carman  for  instance.  There  is  below  such 
a  book  as  "  Vistas  "  a  depth  and  richness  of  imagination 
which  have  rarely  been  disclosed  here.  I  hope  you  will 
find  time  to  send  me  an  occasional  letter.  You  will  do 
me  a  real  service.  I  am  now  at  work  on  a  book  which 
I  hope  will  be  deeper  and  stronger  than  anything  I  have 
done  yet.  There  is  the  stir  of  a  new  life  here,  although 
it  may  be  long  in  getting  itself  adequately  expressed. 

Yours  fraternally, 

Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 

The  second  is  from  Sir  George  Douglas,  poet,  scholar, 
and  keen  critic: 

Spbingwood  Park,  Ivelso, 

23:12: 95. 

My  deak  Shakp, 

Many  thanks  for  j'our  interesting  letter  and  enclosures. 
I  am  very  glad  to  find  that  you  think  I  have  understood 
Miss  Macleod's  work,  and  I  think  it  very  good  of  her 
to  have  taken  my  out-spoken  criticisms  in  such  good  part. 
Certainly  if  she  thinks  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  her  in  read- 
ing over  the  proofs  of  "  The  Washer  of  the  Ford,"  it 
will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me.  I  shall  probably  be  in 
Italy  by  the  time  she  names — the  end  of  Feb.  but  in 
these  days  of  swift  posts  I  hope  that  need  not  matter. 
"VMiat  you  tell  me  of  Fiona's  admirer  is  very  interesting, 
and  from  my  recollection  of  the  way  in  which  books  and 


254  WILLIAM    SHARP 

the  fancied  personality  of  their  authors  possessed  my 
mind  when  I  was  a  youth,  I  can  well  enter  into  his  in- 
fatuation. Fortunately  there  were  no  women  among- 
my  "  influences,"  or  I  might  have  been  in  as  bad  a  case 
as  he!  Would  not  this  be  a  case  for  telling  the  secret, 
under  pledges  of  course,  if  it  were  only  to  prevent  mis- 
chief? By  the  way  the  whole  incident  seems  to  me  to 
afford  excellent  material  for  literary  treatment — not  by 
you  perhaps,  nor  yet  by  me  (for  the  literary  element 
in  the  material  puts  it  outside  your  province,  and  makes 
it  not  quite  the  theme  I  like  for  my  own  use  either)  but 
say,  for  W. 

Yours  ever  sincerely, 

George  Douglas. 

I  do  not  quite  agree  with  you  as  to  the  inception  of 
Miss  Macleod,  and  possibly  this  is  a  matter  in  which  you 
are  not  the  best  possible  judge.  At  any  rate,  without 
going  into  the  matter,  I  fancy  that  I  could  establish  the 
existence  in  works  earlier  than  the  Poems  of  Phantasy 
of  a  certain  mystical  tendency,  (German  perhaps  rather 
than  Celtic  in  its  colouring  at  that  time)  but  none  the 
less  akin  to  the  mysticisms  of  F.  M. 

But  I  may  be  mistaken.  .  . 

Our  friend.  Sir  George  Douglas,  had  followed  the  lit- 
erary career  of  William  Sharp  with  careful  interest,  and 
gave  the  same  heed  to  the  writings  of  "  Fiona  Macleod." 
After  perusal  of  The  Sin-Eater  he  made  a  careful  study 
of  the  two  methods  of  work,  and  wrote  to  the  author  to 
tell  him  he  was  finally  convinced  from  internal  evidence 
that  William  Sharp  was  the  author  of  these  books  un- 
der discussion.  He  did  not  ask  for  confirmation  but 
wished  the  author  to  know  his  conclusions.  The  latter, 
who  valued  not  only  the  friendship  but  the  critical  ap- 
preciation of  his  correspondent,  made  no  denial,  but 
begged  that  the  secret  might  be  guarded.  In  Sir  George 
Douglas'  answer  is  a  reference  to  a  curious  incident 
which  had  happened  while  we  were  at  Rudgwick.     A 


THE    MOUNTAIN   LOVERS  255 

letter  came  from  an  unknown  correspondence  containing 
a  proposal  of  marriage  to  Fiona  Macleod.  Whether  it 
was  intended  as  a  "draw"  or  not  we  could  not  decide. 
The  proposal  was  apparently  written  in  all  seriousness. 
Similarities  of  taste,  details  of  position,  profession  etc., 
were  carefully  given.  Acceptance  was  urged  with  all  ap- 
pearance of  seriousness;  therefore  the  refusal  was 
worded  with  gravity  befitting  the  occasion. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE    WASHER   OF    THE    FOED 

Owing  to  the  publication  of  The  Sin-Eater  by  a  firm 
identified  with  the  Scoto-Celtic  movement  the  book  at- 
tracted immediate  attention.  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde  voiced 
the  Irish  feeling  when  he  wrote  to  my  husband :  "  I  think 
Fiona  Macleod's  books  the  most  interesting  thing  in  the 
new  Scoto-Celtic  movement,  which  I  hope  will  march  side 
by  side  with  our  own."  This  movement  was  according  to 
"William  Sharp  "  fundamentally  the  outcome  of  Ossian, 
and  immediately  of  the  rising  of  the  sap  in  the  Irish  na- 
tion." Following  on  the  incentive  given  by  such  scholars 
as  Windische,  AYhitly  Stokes,  Kuno  Meyer,  and  the  vari- 
ous Folklore  societies,  a  Gaelic  League  had  been  formed 
by  enthusiasts  in  Ireland,  and  in  Scotland,  for  the  pres- 
ervation and  teaching  of  the  old  Celtic  tongue;  for  the 
study  of  the  old  literatures  of  which  priceless  treasures 
lay  untouched  in  both  countries,  and  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  natural  racial  talent.  Wales  had  succeeded  in 
recovering  the  use  of  her  Cymric  tongue ;  and  the  expres- 
sion in  music  of  racial  sentiment  had  become  widespread 
throughout  that  country.  Ireland  and  the  Highlands 
looked  forward  to  attaining  to  a  similar  result;  and  ef- 
forts to  that  end  were  set  agoing  in  schools,  in  classes,  by 
means  of  such  organisations  as  the  Irish  Feis  Ceoil  Com- 
mittee, the  Irish  Literary  Society  and  the  Irish  National 
Theatre.  Their  aim  was  to  preserve  some  utterance  of 
the  national  life,  to  mould  some  new  kind  of  romance, 
some  new  element  of  thought,  out  of  Irish  life  and  tra- 
ditions. Among  the  most  eager  workers  were  Dr.  Doug- 
las Hyde,  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats,  Mr.  Standish  O'Grady,  Mr. 
George  Russell  (A.E.),  Dr.  George  Sigerson,  and  Lady 
Gregory. 

In  Scotland  much  valuable  work  had  been  done  by  such 

256 


THE    WASHER    OF    THE    FORD  257 

men  as  Campbell  of  Islay,  Cameron  of  Brodick,  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Carmichel ;  by  the  Gaelic  League  and  the  Highland 
Mod  and  its  yearly  gatherings.  There  were  writers  and 
poets  also  who  used  the  old  language  and  were  conse- 
quently known  within  only  a  small  area.  No  conspicu- 
ous modeni  Celtic  work  had  hitherto  been  written  in  the 
English  tongue  until  the  appearance  of  the  writings  of 
Fiona  Macleod,  and  later  of  Mr.  Neil  Munro.  The  Sin- 
Eater  was  therefore  warmly  welcomed  on  both  sides  of 
the  Irish  Channel,  and  Fiona  Macleod,  acclaimed  as  the 
leading  representative  of  the  Highland  Gael,  "  our  one 
and  only  Highland  novelist."  The  Irish  Independent 
pronounced  her  to  be  "  the  poet  born,"  "  her  work  is  pure 
romance — and  she  strikes  a  strange  note  in  modern  lit- 
erature, but  it  has  the  spirit  of  the  Celt,  and  is  another 
triumph  for  the  Celtic  genius." 

In  consequence  of  this  reception,  and  of  a  special  arti- 
cle in  The  Bookman,  speculations  began  to  be  made  con- 
cerning the  unknown  and  unseen  authoress.  The  High- 
land Neivs  in  pursuance  of  its  desire  to  awake  in  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland  an  active  sympathy  with  the  grow- 
ing Scoto-Celtic  movement,  was  anxious  to  give  some  de- 
tails concerning  the  new  writer.  To  that  end  Mr.  John 
Macleay  wrote  to  William  Sharp  to  ask  if  "  considering 
your  relation  towards  Miss  Macleod,  you  might  be  able 
to  tell  me  where  I  could  obtain  any  personal  information 
about  her."  In  reply,  a  few  sparse  notes  were  sent;  the 
author  in  question  was  said  to  have  passed  her  girlhood 
in  the  West  Highlands;  her  tastes,  her  dislike  of  towns 
and  her  love  of  seclusion,  were  among  the  characteristics 
described. 

When,  early  in  1896,  The  Highland  News  wrote  to  sev- 
eral authors  to  ask  their  views  on  the  subject  of  Litera- 
ture in  the  Highlands,  Mr.  Grant  Allen,  Mrs.  K^therine 
TjTian  Hinkson,  Fiona  Macleod  and  William  Sharp  were 
among  those  writers  whose  letters,  expressive  of  interest 
and  sympathy,  were  published. 

The  two  letters  contributed  by  my  husband  were  writ- 
ten necessarily,  each  from  a  slightly  different  standpoint. 


258  WILLIAM    SHARP 

He  welcomed  the  opportunity  of  appearing  in  print  in 
the  two  characters  for  he  believed  that  it  would  help  to 
shield  the  secret  concerning  Fiona  Macleod. 

The  publication  by  P.  Geddes  &  Coll.  of  The  Washer  of 
the  Ford — a  collection  of  Tales  and  Legendary  Morali- 
ties— aroused  a  fresh  outbreak  of  curiosity.  For  in- 
stance, a  sensational  article  appeared  in  The  Highland 
News  on  the  vexed  question  of  the  identity  of  the  High- 
land writer,  headed :  "  Mystery !  Mystery !  All  in  a 
Celtic  Haze." 

According  to  it :  "  Highland  Celts  in  Glasgow  are,  I 
hear,  hot  on  the  scent  of  what  they  imagine  to  be  a  female 
James  Macpherson.  This,  of  course,  is  Miss  Fiona  Mac- 
leod. The  way  which  Miss  Macleod  has  led  our  Glas- 
gow countrymen  is  strange  indeed,  and  the  literary  de- 
tective has  been  busy.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  asserted 
that  Miss  Fiona  Macleod  does  not  exist.  No  one  seems 
to  have  seen  her.  One  gentleman  called  twice  at  her  resi- 
dence in  Edinburgh,  and  Miss  Macleod  was  out.  She  has 
written  about  lona,  but  again  in  that  well  watched  place 
her  name  is  unknown.  The  natural  inference,  you  will 
admit,  is  that  there  is  something  here  to  be  "fahnd  aht," 
as  the  Englishman  says.  Seeing  that  the  non-existence 
of  Miss  Fiona  Macleod  has  been  thus  established,  the 
next  point  is  who  wrote  those  books  to  which  that  name 
is  attached.  Now,  Mr.  William  Sharp  has  declared  him- 
self to  be  Miss  Fiona  Macleod's  uncle;  he  has,  too,  in- 
terested himself  in  Celtic  things.  Isn't  it  the  second  natu- 
ral inference  that  he  has  written  the  books?  But  Mr. 
Sharp  has  specifically  denied  the  authorship.  Then,  of 
course,  it  must  be  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sharp  in  collaboration. 
But  again  comes  denial.  Mr.  Sharp  has  addressed  the 
following  note  to  the  Glasgow  "  Evening  News,"  which 
has  been  somewhat  persistent  in  casting  doubt  on  the 
existence  of  Miss  Macleod — "  Miss  Fiona  Macleod  is  not 
Mr.  William  Sharp,  Miss  Fiona  Macleod  is  not  Mrs. 
William  Sharp,  Miss  Fiona  Macleod  is — Miss  Fiona  Mac- 
leod." The  persecuted  author  was  much  disturbed  by 
this  effort  to  draw  Fiona  Macleod  into  a  controversy,  to 


THE    WASHER    OF    THE   FORD  259 

force  her  to  declare  herself.  Not  only  was  he  indig-nant 
at  what  to  him  was  an  unwarrantable  interference  with 
the  privacy  of  the  individual,  and  resented  the  traps  that 
were  laid  to  catch  the  author  should  "  she  "  be  '  unwary,' 
it  was  instrumental  also  in  making  him  much  more  de- 
termined to  guard  his  secret  at  all  costs.  During  the 
months  of  controversy  the  subject  of  it  accomplished  a 
considerable  amount  of  work. 

He  collaborated  with  me  in  the  preparation  of  an  An- 
thology of  Celtic  Poetry;  prepared  an  edition  of  Ossian 
(P.  Geddes  &  Coll.)  for  which  he  wrote  a  long  introduc- 
tion; and  began  to  work  upon  a  humourous  novel,  not, 
however,  finished  until  1898. 

As  F.  M.  he  published  The  Washer  of  the  Ford  in 
April,  wrote  Green  Fire,  and  also  a  number  of 
Poems,  which  were  subsequently  included  in  From  the 
Hills  of  Dream.  His  Diary  for  the  New  Year  has  this 
entry : 

"  Jany  7th,  1896.  The  British  Weekly  has  a  para- 
graph given  under  all  reserve  that  Fiona  Macleod  is  Mrs. 
William  Sharp.  Have  written — as  W.  S. — to  Dr.  R. 
Nicoll  and  to  Mrs.  Macdonell  of  The  Bookman  to  deny 
this  authoritatively." 

From  the  first  we  decided  that  it  would  be  advisable  to 
admit  that  F.  M.  was  my  cousin,  also,  that  my  husband 
acted  as  her  adviser  and  '  right  hand '  in  the  matter  of 
publishing. 

The  arrangements  for  the  two  first  books  were  made  by 
W.  S.  in  person.  No  such  precautions  were  necessaiy 
for  the  books  brought  out  by  P.  Geddes  &  Col.  as  the  head 
of  the  firm  was  in  the  secret.  But,  as  it  was  well  known 
in  Edinburgh  and  elsewhere  that  William  Sharp  was 
keenly  interested  in  the  ^  Celtic  Movement,'  he  thought  it 
well  to  collaborate  with  me  on  an  Anthology  of  Celtic 
Poetry  entitled  Lyra  Celtica  (and  published  by  the  firm), 
for  which  he  prepared  an  Introduction  and  Notes. 

On  the  6th  January,  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  W^illiam  Ros- 
setti  he  wrote  "  Just  back  from  France  where  I  went  so 
far  with  my  wife  on  her  way  to  Central  Italy.    Her  health 


260  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

has  given  way,  alas,  and  she  has  been  sent  out  from  this 
killing  climate  for  3  or  4  months  at  any  rate." 
At  the  end  of  January  he  wrote  to  me : 

"  Only  a  brief  line  to  thank  you  for  your  letter  about 
me  and  Fiona.  Every  word  you  say  is  true  and  urgent, 
and  even  if  I  did  not  know  it  to  be  so  I  would  pay  the 
most  searching  heed  to  any  advice  from  you,  in  whose 
insight  and  judgment  mentally  as  well  as  spiritually  I 
have  such  deep  confidence.  Although  in  the  main  I  had 
come  to  exactly  the  same  standpoint  I  was  wavering  be- 
fore certain  alluring  avenues  of  thought.  ...  If  I  live 
to  be  an  elderly  man,  time  enough  for  one  or  more  of  my 
big  philosophical  and  critical  works.  Meanwhile — the 
flame ! 

The  only  thing  of  the  kind  I  will  now  do — and  that 
not  this  year — will  be  the  "  Introduction  to  the  Study  of 
Celtic  Literature  " :  but  for  that  I  have  the  material  to 
hand,  and  shall  largely  use  in  magazines  first.  .  .  .  Well, 
we  shall  begin  at  once!  February  will  be  wholly  given 
over  to  finishing  Wives  in  Exile  and  The  Washer  of  the 
Ford." 

On  the  1st  February  he  left  town  and  settled  down  to 
work  at  the  Pettycur  Inn,  Kinghorn,  Fife.  His  Diary 
gives  the  following  record  of  work: 

"  Feb.  3rd.  Wrote  the  Preface  to  The  Washer  of  the 
Ford. 

''Feb.  7th.  Dictated  (1750  words)  article  on  Modern 
Eomantic  Art,  for  the  Glasgow  Herald — Also  World 
article. 

Feb.  9th.  Wrote  "  The  Festival  of  the  Birds." 

Feb.  10th.  Glasgow  Herald  Article  (1500  words)  on 
The  Art  of  the  Goldsmith,  and  wrote  '  The  Blessing  of 
the  Fishes.' " 

In  the  middle  of  Fel)ruary  William  had  written  to  Mr. 
E.  Murray  Gilchrist,  one  of  the  few  friends  who  then 
knew  the  secret  of  the  pseudonym: 


THE   WASHER    OF    THE    FORD  261 

My  dear  Gilchrist, 

Fiona  Macleod  has  suddenly  begun  to  attract  a  great 
deal  of  attention.  There  have  been  leaders  as  well  as 
long  and  important  reviews :  and  now  the  chief  North  of 
Scotland  paper,  The  Highland  News,  is  printing  two 
long  articles  devoted  in  a  most  eulogistic  way  to  F.  M. 
and  her  influence  "  already  so  marked  and  so  vital,  so 
that  we  accej)t  her  as  the  leader  of  the  Celtic  Renais- 
sance in  Scotland."  There  is,  also,  I  hear,  to  be  a  Mag- 
azine article  on  her.  This  last  week  there  have  been 
long  and  favourable  reviews  in  the  Academy  and  The 
New  Age. 

I  am  glad  you  like  my  other  book,  I  mean  W.  S's! 
[Ecce  Puella]  There  are  things  in  it  which  are  as  abso- 
lutely out  of  my  real  self  as  it  is  possible  to  be :  and  I  am 
glad  that  you  recognise  this.  I  have  not  yet  seen  my  book 
of  short  stories  published  in  America  under  the  title  The 
Gypsy  Christ,  though  it  has  been  out  some  weeks :  and 
I  have  heard  from  one  or  two  people  about  it.  America 
is  more  indulgent  to  me  just  now  than  I  deserve.  For  a 
leading  American  critic  writes  of  The  Gypsy  Christ  that, 
"  though  it  will  offend  some  people  and  displease  others, 
it  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  volumes  I  have  read  for 
long.  The  titular  story  has  an  extraordinary,  even  a 
dreadful  impressiveness :  '  Madge  o'  the  Pool '  is  more 
realistic  than  '  realism ' :  and  alike  in  the  scathing  society 
love-episode,  '  The  Lady  in  Hosea,'  and  in  that  brilliant 
Algerian  conte,  *■  The  Coward,'  the  author  suggests  the 
method  and  power  of  Guy  de  Maupassant." 

I  hope  to  get  the  book  soon,  and  to  send  you  a  copy. 
As  I  think  I  told  you,  the  setting  of  the  G/C  is  entirely 
that  which  I  knew  through  you.  I  have  made  use  of  one 
or  two  features — exaggerated  facts  and  half  facts — which 
I  trust  will  not  displease  you.  Do  j'ou  remember  my 
feeling  about  those  gaunt  mine-chimneys:  I  always 
think  of  them  now  when  I  think  of  the  G/C.  Funda- 
mentally, however,  the  story  goes  back  to  my  own  early 
experiences — not  as  to  the  facts  of  the  story,  of  course. 
.  .  .  Then  again,  Arthur  Sherburne  Hardy,  who  is  by 


262  WILLIAM    SHARP 

many  considered  the  St.  Beuve  of  American  criticism — in 
surety  and  insight — has  given  his  opinion  of  a  book  i.  e. 
of  all  he  has  seen  of  it  (a  comedy  of  the  higher  kind)  for 
which  Stone  and  Kimball  have  given  me  good  terms — 
Wives  m  Exile — that  it  is  "  quite  unlike  anything  else — 
at  once  the  most  brilliant,  romantic,  and  witty  thing  I 
have  read  for  long — to  judge  from  the  opening  chapters 
and  the  scheme.    It  will  stand  by  itself,  I  think." 

Personally,  I  think  it  shows  the  best  handicraft  of  any- 
thing W.  S.  has  done  in  fiction.  It  is,  of  course,  wholly 
distinct  in  manner  and  method  from  F.  M.'s  work.  It 
ought  to  be  out  by  May.  Sunshine  and  blithe  laughter 
guided  my  pen  in  this  book.  Well,  I  have  given  you  my 
gossip  about  myself :  and  now  I  would  much  rather  hear 
about  you.  I  wish  you  were  here  to  tell  me  all  about  what 
you  have  been  doing,  thinking,  and  dreaming. 

Yours, 
W.  S. 

I  received  the  following  letter  from  him  in  Rome ; 

London,  21st  Feb. 

I  am  sure  Tlie  Highland  News  must  have  delighted 
you.  Let  me  know  what  you  think  of  Fiona's  and  W.  S.'s 
letters.  ...  I  am  so  sorry  you  are  leaving  Siena.  ...  I 
follow  every  step  of  your  movements  with  keenest  in- 
terest.   But  oh  the  light  and  the  colour,  how  I  envy  you ! 

I  am  hoping  you  are  pleased  with  Lyra  Celtica.  It  is 
published  today  only — so  of  course  I  have  heard  nothing 
yet  from  outsiders.  Yesterday  I  finished  my  Matthew 
Arnold  essay  ^ — and  in  the  evening  wrote  the  first  part 
of  my  F.  M.  story,  "  Morag  of  the  Glen  " — a  strong  piece 
of  work  I  hope  and  believe  though  not  finished  yet.  I 
hope  to  finish  it  by  tonight.  I  am  so  glad  you  and 
Mona  liked  the  first  of  "  The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy " 
(pronounced  Eo  or  Hee)  so  well.  Pieces  like  "  The  Festi- 
val of  the  Birds  "  seem  to  be  born  out  of  my  brain  almost 

iThe   essay   prefaces   a   selection  of  M.   A.'s   poems   publiahed  in  the 
Canterbury    Series    (Walter    Scott). 


THE   WASHER    OF    THE    FORD  263 

in  ail  inspirational  way.  I  hardly  understand  it.  Yes, 
you  were  in  the  right  place  to  read  it — St.  Francis'  coun- 
try. That  beautiful  strange  Umbria!  After  all,  lona 
and  Assisi  are  not  nearly  so  remote  from  each  other  as 
from  London  or  Paris.  I  send  you  the  second  of  the 
series  "  The  Blessing  of  the  Flies."  It,  too,  was  written 
at  Pettycur — as  was  "  The  Prologue."  .  .  .  There  is  a 
strange  half  glad,  half  morose  note  in  this  Prologue 
which  I  myself  hardly  apprehend  in  full  significance.  In 
it  is  interpolated  one  of  the  loveliest  of  the  '  legendary 
moralities '  which  I  had  meant  to  insert  in  Section  I — 
that  of  '  The  King  of  the  Earth.'  I  will  send  it  to  you 
before  long.  .  .  . 

To  a  correspondent  he  wrote  about  the  "  Three 
Marvels  of  Hy " :  "  They  are  studies  in  old  Religious 
Celtic  sentiment  so  far  as  that  can  be  recreated  in  a  mod- 
ern heart  that  feels  the  same  beauty  and  simplicity  of  the 
Early  Christian  faith." 

And  to  me  again:  "...  I  know  you  will  rejoice  to 
hear  that  there  can  be  no  question  that  F.  M's  deepest 
and  finest  work  is  in  this  "  Washer'  of  the  Ford  "  volume. 
As  for  the  spiritual  lesson  that  nature  has  taught  me, 
and  that  has  grown  within  me  otherwise,  I  have  given 
the  finest  utterance  to  it  that  I  can.  In  a  sense  my  inner 
life  of  the  spirit  is  concentrated  in  the  three  pieces  "  The 
Moon-Child,"  "  The  Fisher  of  Men,"  and  "  The  Last  Sup- 
per." Than  the  last  I  shall  never  do  anything  better. 
Apart  from  this  intense  inner  flame  that  has  been  burn- 
ing within  me  so  strangely  and  deeply  of  late — I  think 
my  most  imaginative  work  will  be  found  in  the  titular 
piece  "  The  Washer  of  the  Ford,"  which  still,  tho'  writ- 
ten and  revised  some  time  ago,  haunts  me!  and  in  that 
and  the  pagan  and  animistic  "  Annir  Choille."  We  shall 
read  those  things  in  a  gondola  in  Venice?  " 

He  joined  me  in  Venice  on  the  16tli  May — glad  of 
sunshine  and  rest.  We  journeyed  back  to  England  by 
way  of  the  Lakes,  in  a  time  of  early  roses,  and  returned 
to  London  to  find  the  first  copies  of  The  Washer  of  the 


264  WILLIAM    SHARP 

Ford  awaiting  us.     Two  out  of  many  letters  concerning 
the  book  that  came  to  him  from  friends  who  were  in  the 
secret  and  watched  the  development  of  the  "  F.  M."  work, 
were  a  strong  incentive  to  further  effort. 
The  first  is  from  Mr.  Frank  Kinder : 

My  deak  Will, 

From  my  heart  I  thank  you  for  the  gift  of  this  book. 
It  adds  to  the  sum  of  the  precious,  heaven-sent  things  in 
life.  It  will  kindle  the  fire  of  hope,  of  aspiration  and  of 
high  resolve  in  a  thousand  hearts.  As  one  of  those  into 
whose  life  you  have  brought  a  more  poignant  craving 
for  what  is  beautiful  in  word  and  action,  I  thank  you  for 
writing  it. 

Your  friend, 

Frank. 

The  second  was  from  Mr.  Janvier : 

Saint  Eemy  de  Provence, 

June  22,   1896. 

My  deae  Will, 

If  The  Washer  of  the  Ford  were  the  first  of  Fiona's 
books  I  am  confident  that  the  sex  of  its  author  would  not 
pass  unchallenged.  A  great  part  of  it  is  essentially  mas- 
culine— all  the  "  Seanachas,"  and  "  The  Annir  Choille," 
and  the  opening  of  "  The  Washer  " :  not  impossible  for 
a  woman  to  write,  but  unlikely.  Nor  would  a  woman  have 
written  "  The  Annir  Choille,"  I  think,  as  it  is  written 
here.  Fiona  has  shown  her  double  sex  in  this  story  more 
completely,  it  seems  to  me,  than  in  any  other.  It  is  writ- 
ten with  a  man's  sense  of  decency  and  a  woman's  sense  of 
delicacy — and  the  love  of  both  man  and  woman  is  in  it 
to  a  very  extraordinary  degree.  The  fighting  stories 
seem  to  me  to  be  pure  man — though  I  suppose  that  there 
are  Highland  women  (like  Scott's  ''Highland  Widow") 
capable  of  their  stern  savagery.  But  on  these  alone,  Fi- 
ona's sex  scarcely  could  have  been  accepted  unchallenged. 
But  what  seems  to  me  to  show  plainest,  in  all  the  stories 
together,  is  not  the  trifle  that  they  are  by  a  man  or  by  a 
woman  but  that  they  have  come  out  of  your  inspired  soul. 


THE    WASHER    OF    THE    FORD  2G5 

They  seem  to  be  the  result  of  some  outside  force  con- 
straining you  to  write  them.  And  with  their  freshness 
they  have  a  curious  primordial  flavour — that  comes,  I 
suppose,  from  the  deep  roots  and  full  essences  of  life 
which  are  their  substance  of  soul.  Being  basic,  elemen- 
tary, they  are  independent  of  time;  or  even  race.  In  a 
literary — technically  literary — way  they  seem  to  me  to 
be  quite  your  most  perfect  work.  I  am  sensitive  to  word 
arrangement,  and  some  of  your  work  has  made  me  rather 
disposed  to  swear  at  you  for  carelessness.  You  have  not 
always  taken  the  trouble  to  hunt  for  the  word  that  you 
needed.  But  these  stories  are  as  nearly  perfect  in  finish, 
I  think,  as  literary  endeavour  can  make  them.  And  they 
have  that  effect  of  flow  and  ease  that  can  only  come — at 
least,  I  can  imagine  it  only  as  arriving — from  the  most 
persistent  and  laborious  care.  In  the  detail  of  make-up, 
I  am  especially  impressed  by  the  insertion  of  the  Shadow 
Seers  just  where  the  key  is  changed  radically.  They  are 
at  once  your  justifying  pieces  for  what  has  gone  before, 
and  an  orchestral  interlude  before  the  wholly  different 
Seanachas  begin.  Of  all  in  the  book,  my  strongest  affec- 
tion is  for  "  The  Last  Supper."  It  seems  to  me  to  be  the 
most  purely  beautiful,  and  the  profoundest  thing  that 
you  have  done. 

I  feel  that  some  strong  new  current  must  have  come 
into  your  life;  or  that  the  normal  current  has  been  in 
some  way  obstructed  or  diverted — for  the  animating 
spirit  of  these  new  books  reflects  a  radical  change  in  your 
own  soul.  The  Pagan  element  is  entirely  subordinated 
to  and  controlled  by  the  inner  passions  of  the  soul.  In  a 
word  you  have  lifted  your  work  from  the  flesh-level  to 
the  soul-level.  .  .  . 

What  you  say  in  your  letter  of  worry  and  ill-health 
saddens  me.  It  is  unjust  that  your  rare  power  of  cre- 
ation should  be  hampered  in  any  way.  But  it  seems  to 
me  that  there  must  be  great  consolation  in  your  certain 
knowledge  that  you  have  greatly  created,  in  spite  of  all. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

T.  A.  J. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

"  RUNES    OF    THE    SORROW    OF    WOMEN  " 

Green  Fire 

During  the  most  active  years  of  the  Fiona  Macleod 
writings,  the  author  was  usually  in  a  highly  wrought  con- 
dition of  mental  and  emotional  tension,  which  produced 
great  restlessness,  so  that  he  could  not  long  remain  con- 
tentedly anywhere.  We  spent  the  summer  of  1896  moving 
about  from  one  place  to  another  that  had  special  in- 
terest for  him.  First  we  went  to  Bamborough,  for  sea- 
bathing (he  was  a  fine  swimmer),  and  to  visit  the  little 
Holy  Isle  of  the  Eastern  Shores,  Lindisfarne,  lona's 
daughter.  Thence  to  the  Clyde  to  be  near  his  mother  and 
sisters.  From  Inverness  we  went  to  the  Falls  of  Lora, 
in  Ossian's  country,  and  later  we  moved  to  one  of  Wil- 
liam's favourite  haunts.  Loch  Tarbert,  off  Loch  Fjme, 
where  our  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Kinder  had  taken 
a  house  for  the  summer.  There  I  left  him  with  his  sec- 
retary-sister, Mary,  and  returned  to  London  to  recom- 
mence my  work  on  The  Glasgow  Herald.  The  two  fol- 
lowing letters  to  me  told  of  the  progress  of  his  work : 

September  23(i. 

I  am  now  well  in  writing  trim  I  am  glad  to  say.  Two 
days  ago  I  wrote  the  long-awaited  "  Eune  of  the  Passion 
of  Woman  "  the  companion  piece  in  a  sense  to  the  '  Chant 
of  Woman'  in  Pharais — and  have  also  done  the  Savoy 
story  "  The  Archer "  (about  4,500  words)  and  all  but 
done  "  Ahez  the  Pale."  Today  I  hope  to  get  on  with 
the  "  Lily  Leven."  .  .  . 

I  must  make  the  most  of  this  day  of  storm  for  writing. 
I  had  a  splendid  long  sleep  last  night,  and  feel  '  spiff.' 
...  I  am  not  built  for  mixed  companies,  and  like  them 

266 


"RUNES   OF   THE   SORROW  OF   WOMEN"    267 

less  and  less  in  proportion  as  the  imperative  need  of 
F.  M.  and  W.  S.  for  greater  isolation  grows.  I  realise 
more  and  more  the  literal  truth  of  what  George  Meredith 
told  me — that  renunciation  of  ordinary  social  pleasures 
(namely  of  the  ordinary  kind  in  the  ordinary  way)  is  a 
necessity  to  any  worker  on  the  high  levels :  and  unless  I 
work  that  way  I  shall  not  work  at  all. 

26th  Sept. 

.  .  .  Yesterday  turned  out  a  splendid  breezy  day,  de- 
spite its  bad  opening :  one  of  the  most  beautiful  we  have 
had,  altho'  too  cold  for  bathing,  and  too  rough  for  boat- 
ing. I  went  off  by  myself  for  a  long  sail — and  got  back 
about  4.  Later  I  went  alone  for  an  hour  or  so  to  revise 
what  had  stirred  me  so  unspeakably,  namely  the  third 
and  concluding  "  Rune  of  the  Sorrow  of  Women."  This 
last  Rune  tired  me  in  preliminary  excitement  and  in  the 
strange  semi-conscious  fever  of  composition  more  than 
anything  of  the  kind  since  I  wrote  the  first  of  the  three 
in  Pharais  one  night  of  storm  when  I  was  alone  in  Phe- 
nice  Croft. 

I  have  given  it  to  Mary  to  copy,  so  that  I  can  send  it  to 
you  at  once.  Tell  me  what  you  think  and  feel  about  it. 
In  a  vague  way  not  only  you,  Mona,  Edith  and  others 
swam  into  my  brain,  but  I  have  never  so  absolutely  felt 
the  woman-soul  within  me:  it  was  as  though  in  some 
subtle  way  the  soul  of  Woman  breathed  into  my  brain — 
and  I  feel  vaguely  as  if  I  had  given  partial  expression  at 
least  to  the  inarticulate  voice  of  a  myriad  women  who 
suffer  in  one  or  other  of  the  triple  ways  of  sorrow.  For 
work,  and  rebuilding  energy,  I  am  thankful  I  came  here. 
You  were  right :  I  was  not  really  fit  to  go  off  to  the  Hebri- 
des alone,  at  the  present  juncture,  and  might  well  have 
defeated  my  own  end.  Tomorrow  morning  I  shall  be 
writing — probably  at  From  the  Hills  of  Dream. 

From  Tighnabruaich  Hotel,  a  lovely  little  village  in  the 
Kyles  of  Bute,  he  wrote  to  me : 

I  am  glad  to  be  here,  for  though  the  weather  has 
changed  for  the  worse  I  am  so  fond  of  the  place  and 


268  WILLIAM    SHARP 

neighbourhood.  But  what  I  care  for  most  is  I  am  in  a 
strong  Fiona  mood,  though  more  of  dream  and  reverie — 
creatively — than  of  actual  writing :  indeed  it  is  likely  all 
my  work  here,  or  nearly  all  shall  be  done  through  dream 
and  mental-cartooning.  I  have  written  "  The  Snow  Sleep 
of  Angus  Ogue  "  for  the  winter  Evergreen,  and  am  glad 
to  know  it  is  one  of  F.  M's.  deepest  and  best  utterances. 

The  Evergreen  was  a  Quarterly  started  by  Prof. 
Geddes,  of  which  W.  S.  was  Editor.  Five  numbers  only 
were  issued.  During  the  autumn  William  had  prepared 
for  publication  by  P.  Geddes  &  Coll  a  re-issue  of  the  Tales 
contained  in  The  Sin-Eater  and  The  Washer  of  the  Ford, 
in  the  form  of  a  paper  covered  edition  in  three  volumes, 
Barbaric  Tales,  Spiritual  Tales,  Tragic  Romances.  Each 
volume  contained  a  new  tale.  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  consid- 
ered that  "  Of  the  group  of  new  voices  none  is  more  typi- 
cal than  the  curious  mysterious  voice  that  is  revealed  in 
these  stories  of  Miss  Fiona  Macleod.  .  .  .  She  has  be- 
come the  voice  (of  these  primitive  peoples  and  elemental 
things)  not  from  mere  observation  of  their  ways,  but  out 
of  an  absolute  identity  of  nature.  .  .  .  Her  art  belongs 
in  kind,  whatever  be  its  excellence  in  its  kind,  to  a  greater 
art,  which  is  of  revelation,  and  deals  with  invisible  and 
impalpable  things.  Its  mission  is  to  bring  us  near  to 
those  powers  and  principalities,  which  we  divine  in  mor- 
tal hopes  and  passions. 

Mr.  W.  E.  Henley  had  shown  considerable  interest  in 
the  "  F.  M."  Tales,  and  had  written  an  appreciative  letter 
to  the  author,  who  immediately  acknowledged  it: 

1:  4:  97. 

Dear  Me.  Henley, 

I  thank  you  for  your  kind  letter.  Any  work  of  recog- 
nition from  you  means  much  to  me.  Your  advice  is  wise 
and  sane,  I  am  sure — and  you  may  be  certain  that  I  shall 
bear  it  in  mind.  It  will  be  difficult  to  follow — for  absolute 
simplicity  is  the  most  difficult  of  all  styles,  being,  as  it 
must  be,  the  expression  of  a  mind  at  once  so  imaginative 


"RUNES   OF   THE   SORROW  OF  WOMEN"    269 

in  itself,  so  lucid  in  its  outlook,  and  so  controlled  in  its 
expression,  that  only  a  very  few  rarely  gifted  individuals 
can  hope  to  achieve  the  isolating  ideal  you  indicate. 

The  three  latest  things  I  have  written  are  the  long 
short-story  "  Morag  of  the  Glen,"  "  The  Melancholy  of 
Ulad,"  and  "  The  Archer."  I  would  particularly  like  to 
know  what  you  think  of  the  style  and  method  of  "  The 
Archer  "  (I  mean,  apart  from  the  arbitrary  fantasy  of 
the  short  supplementary  part — which  affords  the  clue 
to  the  title) — as  there  I  have  written,  or  tried  to  write, 
with  the  accent  of  that  life  as  I  know  it. 

F.  M. 

The  central  story  of  "  The  Archer  "  was  one  of  the 
Tales  which  the  author  valued  most,  and  rewrote  many 
times.  In  its  final  form — "  Silas,"  in  the  Tauchnitz  volume 
of  F.  M.  Tales — it  stands  without  the  opening  and  clos- 
ing episodes.  Concerning  the  "  fantasy  of  the  short  sup- 
plementary part  "  a  curious  coincidence  happened.  That 
arbitrary  fantasy  is  the  record  of  a  dream,  or  vision, 
which  the  author  had  at  Tarbert.  In  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Yeats  received  shortly  after,  the  Irish  poet  related  a  sim- 
ilar experience  which  he  had  had — a  vision  of  a  woman 
shooting  arrows  among  the  stars — a  vision  that  appeared 
also  the  same  night  to  Mr.  Arthur  Sym^ons.  I  remember 
the  exchange  of  letters  that  passed  ))etween  the  three 
writers ;  unfortunately  Fiona's  letter  to  Mr.  Sjnnons,  and 
the  latter' s  answer,  are  not  available.  But  I  have  two  of 
the  letters  on  the  subject  which,  through  the  courtesy  of 
Mr.  Yeats,  I  am  able  to  quote;  both,  unfortunately  are 
undated.  F.  M.  describes  a  second  vision  which,  how- 
ever, had  no  connection  with  the  coincidence. 

Mr.  Yeats  wrote: 

TiLLYRA  Castle, 
Co.  Galway. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter.  You  must  have  written 
it  the  very  morning  I  was  writing  to  Miss  Macleod.  I 
have  just  returned  from  the  Arran  Islands  where  I  had 


270  WILLIAM   SHARP 

gone  on  a  fishing  boat,  and  where  I  go  again  at  the  end 
of  this  week.  I  am  studying  on  the  islands  for  the  open- 
ing chapter  of  a  story  I  am  about  to  set  out  upon.  I  met 
two  days  ago  an  old  man  who  hears  the  fairies  he  says 
every  night  and  complains  much  that  their  singing  keeps 
him  awake.  He  showed  me  a  flute  which  he  had  got  think- 
ing that  if  he  played  it  they  might  be  pleased  and  so  cease 
teasing  him.  I  have  met  much  curious  lore  here  and  in 
Arran. 

I  have  had  some  singular  experiences  myself.  I  in- 
voked one  night  the  spirits  of  the  moon  and  saw  between 
sleep  and  waking  a  beautiful  woman  firing  an  arrow 
among  the  stars.  That  night  she  appeared  to  Symons 
who  is  staying  here,  and  so  impressed  him  that  he  wrote 
a  poem  on  her  the  only  one  he  ever  wrote  to  a  dream,  call- 
ing her  the  fountain  of  all  song  or  some  such  phrase. 
She  was  the  symbolic  Diana.  I  invoked  a  different  spirit 
another  night  and  it  appeared  in  dreams  to  an  old  French 
Count,  who  was  staying  here,  and  was  like  Symons  ig- 
norant of  my  invocations.  He  locked  his  door  to  try  to 
keep  it  out.    Please  give  my  greetings  to  Miss  Macleod. 

Yours  Sincerely, 

W.  B.  Yeats. 

F.  M.  wrote  in  acknowledgment  of  a  long  critical  letter 
from  Mr.  Yeats,  to  whom  "  she  "  had  sent  The  Washer 
of  the  Ford: 

Taebert  on  Loch  Ftne. 
Dear  Mr.  Yeats, 

Unforeseen  circumstances  have  prevented  my  writing 
to  you  before  this,  and  even  now  I  must  perforce  be  more 
brief  than  I  would  fain  be  in  response  to  your  long  and 
deeply  interesting  as  well  as  generous  letter.  Alas,  a 
long  pencilled  note  (partly  apropos  of  your  vision  of  the 
woman  shooting  arrows,  and  of  the  strange  coincidence 
of  something  of  the  same  kind  on  my  own  part)  has  long 
since  been  devoured  by  a  too  voracious  or  too  trustful 
gull — for  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  blew  the  quarto-sheet 
from  off  the  deck  of  the  small  yacht  wherein  I  and  my 


"RUNES   OF   THE   SORROW  OF  WOMEN"    271 

dear  friend  and  confrere  of  whom  you  know  were  sail- 
ing, off  Skye.  .  .  .  How  good  of  you  to  write  to  me  as 
you  did.  Believe  me,  I  am  grateful.  There  is  no  other 
writer  whose  good  opinion  could  please  me  more — for  I 
love  your  work,  and  take  an  endless  delight  in  your  poe- 
try, and  look  to  you  as  not  only  one  of  the  rare  few  on 
whose  lips  is  the  honey  of  Magh  Mell  but  as  one  the  dark 
zone  of  whose  mind  is  lit  with  the  strange  stars  and  con- 
stellations of  the  spiritual  life.  Most  cordially  I  thank 
you  for  your  critical  remarks.  Even  where  I  do  not  un- 
reservedly agree,  or  where  I  venture  to  diifer  (as  for  ex- 
ample, in  the  matter  of  the  repetition  of  the  titular  words 
in  "  The  Washer  of  the  Ford  "  poem)  I  have  carefully 
pondered  all  you  say.  I  am  particularly  glad  you  feel 
about  the  "  Annir  Choille "  as  you  do.  Some  people 
whom  I  would  like  to  please  do  not  care  for  it :  yet  I  am 
sure  you  are  right  in  considering  it  one  of  the  most  vital 
things  I  have  been  able  to  do. 

With  what  delight  I  have  read  your  lovely  lovely  poem 
"  O'Sullivan  Rue  to  the  Secret  Rose ! "  I  have  read  it 
over  and  over  with  ever  deepening  delight.  It  is  one  of 
your  finest  poems,  I  think:  though  perhaps  it  can  only 
be  truly  appreciated  by  those  who  are  familiar  with  leg- 
endary Celtic  history.  We  read  it  to  each  other,  my 
friend  and  I,  on  a  wonderful  sundown  "  when  evening  fed 
the  wave  with  quiet  light,"  off  one  of  the  Inner  Hebrides 
(Colonsay,  to  the  South  of  Oban).  ...  I  cannot  quite 
make  up  my  mind,  as  you  ask,  about  your  two  styles. 
Personally,  I  incline  not  exactly  to  a  return  to  the  earlier 
but  to  a  marriage  of  the  two :  that  is,  a  little  less  remote- 
ness, or  subtlety,  with  a  little  more  of  rippling  clarity. 
After  reading  your  Blake  paper  (and  with  vivid  interest 
and  delight)  I  turned  to  an  early  work  of  yours  which  I 
value  highly,  Dhoya :  and  I  admit  that  my  heart  moved  to 
it.  Between  them  lies,  I  think,  your  surest  and  finest 
line  of  work — with  the  light  deft  craft  of  The  Celtic  Tivi- 
light. 

I  hope  you  are  soon  going  to  issue  the  promised  volume 
of  poems.    When  my  own  book  of  verse  is  ready — it  is 


272  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

to  be  called  From  the  Hills  of  Dream — it  will  give  me 
such  sincere  pleasure  to  send  you  a  copy.  By  the  bye,  I 
must  not  forget  to  thank  you  for  introducing  my  work 
to  Mr.  Arthur  Symons.  He  wrote  to  me  a  pleasant  letter, 
and  asked  me  to  contribute  to  the  Savoy,  which  I  have 
done.  I  dare  say  my  friend  (who  sends  you  comradely 
greetings,  and  says  he  will  write  in  a  day  or  two)  will  tell 
you  more  from  me  when  he  and  you  meet. 

I  had  a  strange  vision  the  other  day,  wherein  I  saw  the 
figure  of  a  gigantic  woman  sleeping  on  the  green  hills  of 
Ireland.  As  I  watched,  the  sun  waned  and  the  dark  came 
and  the  stars  began  to  fall.  They  fell  one  by  one,  and 
each  fell  into  the  woman — and  lo,  of  a  sudden,  all  was 
bare  running  water,  and  the  drowned  stars  and  the  trans- 
muted woman  passed  from  my  seeing.  This  was  a  wak- 
ing dream,  an  open  vision:  but  I  do  not  know  what  it 
means,  though  it  was  so  wonderfully  vivid.  In  a  vague 
way  I  realise  that  something  of  tremendous  moment  is 
being  matured  just  now.  We  are  on  the  verge  of  vitally 
important  developments.  And  all  the  heart,  all  the  brain, 
of  the  Celtic  races  shall  be  stirred.  There  is  a  shadow  of 
mighty  changes.  Myself,  I  believe  that  new  spirits  have 
been  embodied  among  us.  And  some  of  the  old  have  come 
back.  We  shall  perish,  you  and  I  and  all  who  fight  under 
the  "  Lifting  of  the  Sunbeam  " — but  we  shall  pioneer  a 
wonderful  marvellous  new  life  for  humanity.  The  other 
day  I  asked  an  old  islesman  where  her  son  was  buried. 
"  He  was  not  buried,"  she  said,  "  for  all  they  buried  his 
body.  For  a  week  ago  I  saw  him  lying  on  the  heather, 
and  talking  swift  an'  wild  with  a  Shadow."  The  Shadows 
are  here. 

I  must  not  write  more  just  now. 

My  cordial  greetings  to  you, 

Sincerely, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

No  sooner  had  W.  S.  returned  to  London  than  he  fell  ill 
with  nervous  prostration,  and  rheumatism.  It  was  soon 
ol)vious  that  he  could  not  remain  in  town,  and  that  for  a 


"RUNES  OF   THE   SORROW  OF  WOMEN"    273 

short  time  at  any  rate  he  must  cease  from  pen-work.  It 
therefore  seemed  an  opportune  moment  for  him  to  go  to 
New  York,  and  attend  to  his  publishing  interests  there, 
especially  as  Messrs.  Stone  &  Kimball  had  recently  failed. 
Before  starting  he  had  read  and  reviewed  with  much 
interest  a  volume  of  poems  by  the  American  poet,  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Stoddard,  and  had  received  a  pleased  acknowl- 
edgment from  her  husband  Richard  A.  Stoddard : 

New  York, 
Oct.  30,  1896. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  what  you  have  written 
about  my  wife's  poetry,  any  recognition  of  which  touches 
me  more  nearly  than  anything  that  could  be  said  about 
my  own  verse.  .  .  .  My  wife  has  told  you,  I  presume, 
how  much  I  enjoyed  your  wife's  Women's  Voices,  just 
before  I  went  into  the  Hospital,  and  how  I  composed  a  bit 
of  verse  in  my  head  when  I  couldn't  see  to  feed  myself. 
Do  you  ever  compose  in  that  silent  way?  I  have  taught 
myself  to  do  without  pens,  ink,  and  paper,  in  verse;  but 
I  can't  do  so  in  prose,  which  would  print  itself  in  the  thing 
I  call  my  mind.  Give  my  kindest  regards  and  warmest 
good  wishes  to  your  Elizabeth,  whose  charming  book  is  a 
favourite  with  my  Elizabeth  as  well,  as  with 

Yours  sincerely, 

R.  H.  Stoddard. 

Later,  Mr.  Stedman  wrote  an  account  of  a  dinner  given 
to  Mr.  Stoddard  to  which  W.  S.  was  invited: 

Bronxville,  N.  Y., 

Feb.   17,   1897. 

My  dear  Sharp, 

I  have  received  your  long  letter  of  the  25th  Jany,  and 
also  a  shorter  one  of  the  30th  written  at  Mr.  George  Cot- 
terell's  house.  I  will  say  at  the  outset  that  I  feel  guilty  at 
seeing  the  name  of  that  loveable  man  and  true  poet ;  for 
although  a  year  has  passed  since  the  completion  of  my 
(Victorian)  "  Anthology  "  I  have  been  positively  unable 
to  write  the  letter  which  I  have  in  my  heart  for  him. 


274  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

.  .  .  The  most  important  social  matter  here  this 
winter  relating  to  our  Guild  will  be  a  large  important  din- 
ner to  be  given  on  March  25th  by  the  Author's  Club  and 
his  other  friends,  to  Eichard  Henry  Stoddard.  We  are 
going  to  try  to  make  an  exception  to  the  rule  that  New 
York  is  not  good  to  her  own,  and  to  render  a  tribute  some- 
what commensurate  with  Stoddard's  life  long  services, 
and  his  quality  as  poet  and  man.  A  few  invitations  are 
going  to  be  sent  to  literary  men  abroad,  and  I  have  been 
able  to  write  about  them  to  Besant,  Dobson,  Garnett  and 
yourself.  Of  course  I  do  not  expect  that  you  will  come 
over  here,  and  I  am  quite  sure  you  will  write  a  letter 
which  can  be  read  at  the  dinner,  for  I  have  in  mind  your 
personal  friendship  with  Stoddard  and  affectionate  com- 
prehension of  his  genius  and  career.  .  .  . 

On  the  13th  of  April  Mr.  Stedman  wrote  again  to  re- 
port on  the  proceedings : 

Your  letter  to  the  Stoddard  Banquet  was  by  far  the 
best  and  most  inclusive  of  the  various  ones  received,  and 
it  was  read  out  to  the  150  diners  and  met  with  high 
favour.  I  mailed  you  the  full  report  of  the  affair,  but 
believe  I  have  not  written  you  since  it  came  off.  It 
proved  to  be  the  most  notable  literary  occasion  yet  known 
in  this  city — was  brilliant,  magnetic,  enthusiastic  through- 
out. I  felt  a  pride  in  my  office  as  Chairman.  The  hall 
was  one  of  the  handsomest  in  America,  the  speaking  of 
the  most  eloquent  type,  and  full  of  laughter  and  tears. 
The  Stoddards  were  deeply  gratified  by  your  letter. 

E.  C.  S. 

My  husband  arrived  in  New  York  on  All  Hallow  E'en 
and  went  direct  to  the  hospitable  house  of  Mr.  Alden 
whence  he  wrote  to  me : 

Metuchex,  X.  J., 
1st  Nov.,   1896. 

...  Of  course  nothing  can  be  done  till  Wednesday. 
All  America  is  aflame  with  excitement — and  New  York 
itself  is  at  fever-heat.    I  have  never  seen  such  a  sight  as 


"RUNES   OF   THE   SORROW  OF  WOMEN"    275 

yesterday.  The  whole  enormous  city  was  a  mass  of  flags 
and  innumerable  Republican  and  Democratic  insignia — 
with  the  streets  thronged  with  over  two  million  jjeople. 
The  whole  business  quarter  made  a  gigantic  parade  that 
took  7  hours  in  its  passage — and  the  business  men  alone 
amounted  to  over  100,000.  Everyone — as  indeed  not  only 
America,  but  Great  Britain  and  all  Europe — is  now  look- 
ing eagerly  for  the  final  word  on  Tuesday  night.  The 
larger  issues  are  now  clearer :  not  merely  that  the  Bryan- 
ite  50-cent  dollar  (instead  of  the  standard  100  cent)  would 
have  far  reaching  disastrous  effects,  but  that  the  whole 
struggle  is  one  of  the  anarchic  and  destructive  against 
the  organic  and  constructive  forces.  However,  this  tre- 
mendous crisis  will  come  to  an  end — pro  tem.  at  any  rate 
— on  Tuesday  night.  .  .  . 

During  his  absence,  F.  M.'s  romance,  Green  Fire,  was 
published.  The  title  was  taken  from  a  line  in  '  Cathal 
of  the  Woods,' '  0  green  fire  of  life,  pulse  of  the  world,  0 
Love ! '  And  the  deeper  meaning  of  the  expression 
*  Green  Life ' — so  familiar  to  all  who  knew  '  Fiona  Mac- 
leod ' — is  suggested  in  a  sentence  at  the  close  of  the 
book :  "  Alan  knew  that  strange  nostalgia  of  the  mind 
for  impossible  things.  Then,  wrought  for  a  while  from 
his  vision  of  green  life,  and  flamed  by  another  green 
fire  than  that  bom  of  earth,  he  dreamed  hi^s  dream." 

To  me,  the  author  wrote  from  New  York : 

"...  I  am  indeed  glad  you  like  Green  Fire  so  well. 
And  you  are  right  in  your  insight:  Annaik  is  the  real 
human  magnet.  Ynys  is  an  idealised  type,  what  I  mean 
by  Ideala  or  Esclarmoundo,  but  she  did  not  take  hold  of 
me  like  Annaik.  Alan,  too,  is  a  variation  of  the  Ian  type. 
But  Annaik  has  for  me  a  strange  and  deep  attraction: 
and  I  am  sure  the  abiding  personal  interest  must  be  in 
her.  You  are  the  only  one  who  seems  to  have  understood 
and  perceived  this — certainly  the  only  one  who  has  no- 
ticed it.  Some  day  I  want  to  tell  Annaik's  story  in 
full.  ..." 


276  WILLIAM    SHARP 

The  author  had  read  much  Breton  lore  during  his  study 
of  French  Literature,  and  as  his  interest  had  for  a  tune 
been  centred  on  the  laud  of  the  kindred  Celt,  he  deter- 
mined to  make  it  the  setting  of  a  new  Romance.  He  had 
never  been  there,  so  drew  on  his  imaghiation  for  the 
depiction  of  the  places  he  knew  of  by  hearsay  only.  The 
result,  when  later  he  judged  the  book  in  cool  criticism, 
he  considered  to  be  unsatisfactory  as  to  structure  and 
balance.  He  realised,  that  although  the  Fiona  impetus 
produced  the  first  chapter  and  the  latter  part,  the  plot 
and  melodramatic  character  of  the  Breton  story  are  due 
to  W.  S. ;  that  the  descriptions  of  nature  are  written  l)y 
F.  M.  and  W.  S.  in  fusion,  are  in  character  akin  to  the 
descriptions  in  "  The  Children  of  Tomorrow,"  written  by 
W.  S.  in  his  transition  stage.  Consequently,  when  in 
1905,  he  discussed  with  me  what  he  wished  preserved  of 
his  writings,  he  asked  my  promise  that  I  would  never 
republish  the  book  in  its  entirety. 

In  order  to  preserve  what  he  himself  cared  for,  he  re- 
wrote the  Highland  jDortion  of  the  book,  named  it  "  The 
Herdsman  "  and  included  it  in  The  Dominion  of  Dreams. 
(In  the  Uniform  Edition,  it  is  placed,  together  with 
a  series  of  detached  Thought-Fragments  from  Green 
Fire,  in  The  Divine  Adventure,  Vol.  IV.)  He  never 
carried  out  his  intention  of  writing  Annaik's  story  in 
full.  Had  he  done  so  it  would  have  been  incori3orated 
in  a  story,  partly  reminiscent  of  his  early  sojourn 
among  the  gipsies,  and  have  been  called  The  Gypsy 
Trail. 

Some  months  later  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  wrote  to  AV.  S. : 

"  I  have  read  '  Green  Fire '  since  I  saw  you.  I  do  not 
think  it  is  one  of  your  well-built  stories,  and  I  am  certain 
that  the  writing  is  constantly  too  self-consciously  pictur- 
esque ;  but  the  atmosphere,  the  romance  of  much  of  it,  of 
'  The  Herdsman  '  part  in  particular  haunts  me  ever  since 
I  laid  it  down. 

'  Fiona  Macleod '  has  certainly  discovered  the  ro- 
mance of  the  remote  Gaelic  places  as  no  one  else  has  ever 


"RUNES   OF   THE   SORROW  OF  WOMEN"    277 

done.    She  has  made  the  earth  by  so  much  the  more  beau- 
tiful." 

And  Mr.  George  Russell  (A.  E.)  wrote  to  F.  M.  from 
Dublin : 

Deak  Fiona  Macleod, 

My  friend,  Willie  Yeats,  has  just  come  by  me  wrapt  in 
a  faery  whirlwind,  his  mouth  speaking  great  things. 
He  talked  much  of  reviving  the  Druidic  mysteries  and 
vaguely  spoke  of  Scotland  and  you.  These  stirring  ideas 
of  his  are  in  such  a  blaze  of  light  that,  but  for  the  inspira- 
tion of  a  presence  always  full  of  enthusiasm,  I  would  get 
no  ideas  at  all  from  him.  But  when  he  mentioned  your 
name  and  spoke  of  the  brotherhood  of  the  Celts  and  what 
ties  ought  to  unite  them,  I  remembered  a  very  kindly 
letter  which  I  had  put  on  one  side  waiting  for  an  excuse 
to  write  again.  So  I  take  gladly  Yeats'  theory  of  what 
ought  to  be  and  write.  .  .  . 

Thoughts  inspired  by  what  is  written  or  said  are  aimed 
at  the  original  thinker  and  from  every  quarter  converge 
on  his  inner  nature.  Perhaps  you  have  felt  this.  It 
means  that  these  people  are  putting  fetters  on  you,  bind- 
ing you  to  think  in  a  certain  way  (what  they  expect  from 
you) ;  and  there  is  a  danger  of  the  soul  getting  bent  so 
that  after  its  first  battle  it  fights  no  more  but  repeats 
dream  upon  dream  its  first  words  in  answer  to  their  de- 
mand and  it  grows  more  voice  and  less  soul  every  day. 
I  read  Green  Fire  a  few  weeks  ago  and  have  fallen  in 
love  with  your  haunted  seas.  Your  nature  spirit  is  a 
little  tragic.  You  love  the  Mother  as  I  do  but  you  seem 
for  ever  to  expect  some  revelation  of  awe  from  her  lips 
where  I  would  hide  my  head  in  her  bosom.  But  the 
breathless  awe  is  true  also — to  "  meet  on  the  Hills  of 
Dream,"  that  would  not  be  so  difficult.  I  think  you  know 
that?  Some  time  when  the  power  falls  on  me  I'll  send  a 
shadow  of  myself  over  seas  just  to  get  the  feeling  of  the 
Highlands.  I  have  an  intuition  that  the  "  fires  "  are 
awakening  somewhere  in  the  North  West.    I  may  have 


278  WILLIAM    SHARP 

met  you  indeed  and  not  known  you.  We  are  so  different 
behind  the  veil.  Some  who  are  mighty  of  the  mighty 
there  are  nothing  below  and  then  waking  life  keeps  no 
memory  of  their  victorious  deeds  in  sleep.  And  if  I  saw 
you  your  inner  being  might  assume  some  old  Druidic 
garb  of  the  soul,  taking  that  form  because  you  are  think- 
ing the  Druidic  thought.  The  inner  being  is  protean  and 
has  a  thousand  changes  of  apparel.  I  sat  beside  a  friend 
and  while  he  was  meditating,  the  inner  being  started  up 
in  Egyptian  splendour  robed  in  purple  and  gold.  He  had 
chanced  upon  some  mood  of  an  ancient  life.  I  write  to 
you  of  these  things  judging  that  you  know  of  them  to 
some  extent  here:  that  your  inner  nature  preserves  the 
memory  of  old  initiations,  so  I  talk  to  you  as  a  comrade 
on  the  same  quest.  You  know  too  I  think  that  these  al- 
luring visions  and  thoughts  are  of  little  import  unless 
they  link  themselves  unto  our  humanity.  It  means  only 
madness  in  the  end.  I  know  people  whose  lamps  are  lit 
and  they  see  wonderful  things  but  they  themselves  will 
not  pass  from  vision  into  action.  They  follow  beauty 
only  like  the  dwellers  in  Tyre  whom  Ezekiel  denounced 
"  They  have  corrupted  their  wisdom  by  reason  of  their 
brightness."  Leaving  these  mystic  things  aside  what  you 
say  about  art  is  quite  true  except  that  I  cannot  regard 
art  as  the  "  quintessential  life  "  unless  art  comes  to  mean 
the  art  of  living  more  than  the  art  of  the  artists.  .  .  . 
Sometime,  perhaps,  if  it  is  in  the  decrees  of  the  gods  (our 
true  selves)  we  may  meet  and  speak  of  these  things.  But 
don't  get  enslaved  by  your  great  power  of  expression.  It 
ties  the  mind  a  little.  There  was  an  old  Hermetist  who 
said  "  The  knowledge  of  It  is  a  divine  silence  and  the 
rest  of  all  the  senses.  .  .  ." 

You  ask  me  to  give  my  best.  Sometimes  I  think  silence 
is  the  best.  I  can  feel  the  sadness  of  truth  here,  but  not 
the  joy,  and  there  must  always  be  as  exquisite  a  joy  as 
there  is  pain  in  any  state  of  consciousness.  .  .  . 

A.  E. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

FROM    THE    HILLS    OF   DREAM 

The  Laughter  of  Peterkin 

On  the  wanderer's  return  to  England  his  volume  of 
poems  From  the  Hills  of  Dream  was  published  by  P. 
Geddes  &  Coll.  The  first  edition  was  dedicated  to  our 
godson  Arthur  AUhallow,  younger  son  of  Prof,  and  Mrs. 
Patrick  Geddes,  who  was  born  on  that  Hallow  E'en  the 
anniversary  of  our  Wedding-day.  The  volume  consists 
of  poems,  runes  and  lyrics,  written  by  F.  M.  between 
1893  and  1896 ;  and  a  series  of  "  prose  rhythms  "  entitled 
"  The  Silence  of  Amor." 

A  sympathetic  letter  from  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys,  the  Welsh 
poet,  drew  a  quick  response: 

MUBEAYFIELD,    MIDLOTHIAN, 

23:  11:  96. 

Dear  Mr.  Rhys, 

On  my  coming  from  the  West  to  Edinburgh,  for  a  few 
days,  I  found  your  very  welcome  and  charming  letter, 
among  others  forwarded  to  me  from  the  Outlook  Tower. 

It  gratifies  me  very  much  that  you,  whose  work  I  so 
much  admire  and  with  whose  aims  and  spirit  I  am  in  so 
keen  sympathy,  care  so  well  for  the  "  Hills  of  Dream." 
These  are  hills  where  few  inhabit,  but  comrade  always 
knows  comrade  there — and  so  we  are  sure  to  meet  one 
another,  whether  one  carry  a  "  London  Rose  "  or  a  sheaf 
of  half -barbaric  Hill-Runes.  It  may  interest  you  to  know 
that  the  name  which  seems  to  puzzle  so  many  people  is 
(though  it  does  exist  as  the  name  "Fiona,"  not  only  in 
Ossian  but  at  the  present  day,  though  rarely)  the 
Gaelic  diminutive  of  "  Fionaghal  "  (i,  e.  Flora).  For  the 
rest — I  was  born  more  than  a  thousand  years  ago,  in  the 
remote  region  of  Gaeldom  known  as  the  Hills  of  Dream. 

279 


280  WILLIAM   SHARP 

There  I  have  lived  the  better  part  of  my  life,  my  father's 
name  was  Romance,  and  that  of  my  mother  was  Dream. 
I  have  no  photograph  of  their  abode,  which  is  just  under 
the  quicken-arch  immediately  west  of  the  sunset-rainbow. 
You  will  easily  find  it.  Nor  can  I  send  you  a  photograph 
of  myself.  My  last  fell  among  the  dew-wet  heather,  and 
is  now  doubtless  lining  the  cells  of  the  wild  bees. 
All  this  authentic  information  I  gladly  send  you ! 

Sincerely  yours, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

Early  in  1897  Mr.  Yeats  wrote  from  Paris  to  F.  M. 
concerning  aims  and  ideals  he  was  endeavouring  to  shape 
into  expression  for  the  re-vivifying  of  Celtic  Ireland,, 
and  out  of  which  has  evolved  the  Irish  National  Theatre: 

My  deae  Miss  Macleod, 

I  owe  you  a  letter  for  a  long  time,  and  can  only  promise 
to  amend  and  be  more  prompt  in  future.  I  have  had  a 
busy  autumn,  always  trying  to  make  myself  do  more  work 
than  my  disposition  will  permit,  and  at  such  times  I  am 
the  worst  of  correspondents.  I  have  just  finished  a  cer- 
tain speech  in  The  Shadowy  Waters,  my  new  poem,  and 
have  gone  to  The  Cafe  du  Musee  de  Cluny  to  smoke  and 
read  the  Irish  news  in  the  Times.  I  should  say  I  wrote 
about  your  book  of  poems  as  you  will  have  seen  in  the 
Bookman.  I  have  just  now  a  plan  I  want  to  ask  you 
about?  Our  Irish  Literary  and  Political  literary  organi- 
sations are  pretty  complete  (I  am  trying  to  start  a  Young 
Ireland  Society,  among  the  Irish  here  in  Paris  at  the 
moment)  and  I  think  it  would  be  very  possible  to  get  up 
Celtic  plays  through  these  Societies.  They  would  be  far 
more  effective  than  lectures  and  might  do  more  than 
anything  else  we  can  do  to  make  the  Irish  Scotch  and 
other  Celts  recognise  their  solidarity.  My  own  plays  are 
too  elaborate,  I  think,  for  a  start,  and  have  also  the  disad- 
vantage that  I  cannot  urge  my  own  work  in  committee. 
If  we  have  one  or  two  short  direct  prose  plays,  of  (say) 
a  mythological  and  folklore  kind,  by  you  and  by  some 
writer  (I  may  be  able  to  move  O'Grady,  I  have  already 


FKOM   THE   HILLS    OF   DREAM  281 

spoken  to  him  about  it  urgently)  I  feel  sure  we  could  get 
the  Irish  Literary  Society  to  make  a  start.  They  have 
indeed  for  some  time  talked  of  doing  my  Land  of  Heart's 
Desire. 

My  own  theory  of  poetical  or  legendary  drama  is 
that  it  should  have  no  realistic,  or  elaborate,  but  only 
a  symbolic  and  decorative  setting.  A  forest,  for  in- 
stance, should  be  represented  by  a  forest  pattern  and  not 
by  a  forest  painting.  One  should  design  a  scene,  which 
would  be  an  accompaniment  not  a  reflection  of  the  text. 
This  method  would  have  the  further  advantage  of  being 
fairly  cheap,  and  altogether  novel.  The  acting  should 
have  an  equivalent  distance  to  that  of  the  play  from  com- 
mon realities.  The  plays  might  be  almost,  in  some  cases, 
modem  mystery  plays.  Your  Last  Supper,  for  instance, 
would  make  such  a  play,  while  your  story  in  The  Savoy 
would  arrange  as  a  strong  play  of  merely  human  tragedy. 
I  shall  try  my  own  hand  possibly  at  some  short  prose 
plays  also,  but  not  yet.  I  merely  suggest  these  things 
because  they  are  a  good  deal  on  my  mind,  and  not  that  I 
wish  to  burden  your  already  full  hands.  My  "  Shadowy 
Waters  "  is  magical  and  mystical  beyond  anything  I  have 
done.  It  goes  but  slowly  however,  and  I  have  had  to  re- 
cast all  I  did  in  Ireland  some  years  ago.  Mr.  Sharp 
heard  some  of  it  in  London  in  its  first  very  monotonous 
form.    I  wish  to  make  it  a  kind  of  grave  ecstasy. 

I  am  also  at  the  start  of  a  novel  which  moves  between 
the  Islands  of  Aran  and  Paris,  and  shall  have  to  go  again 
to  Aran  about  it.  After  these  books  I  start  a  long  cher- 
ished project — a  poetical  version  of  the  great  Celtic  epic 
tale  Deirdre,  Cuchullin  at  the  Ford,  and  Cuchullin's 
death,  and  Dermot  and  Grainne.  I  have  some  hopes  that 
Mr.  Sharp  will  come  to  Paris  on  his  way  back  to  England. 
I  have  much  to  talk  over  with  him,  I  am  feeling  more  and 
more  every  day  that  our  Celtic  movement  is  approaching 
a  new  jDhase.  Our  instrument  is  sufficiently  prepared  as 
far  as  Ireland  is  concerned,  but  the  people  are  less  so, 
and  they  can  only  be  stirred  by  the  imagination  of  a  very 
few  acting  on  all. 


282  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

My  book  The  Secret  Rose  was  to  have  been  out  in  De- 
cember but  it  has  been  postponed  till  February.  If  I 
have  any  earlier  copies  you  shall  have  one.  I  am  spe- 
cially curious  to  know  what  you  think  of  a  story  called 
"  The  Adoration  of  the  Magi "  which  is  a  half  prophecy 
of  a  very  veiled  kind. 

Yours  truly, 

W.  B.  Yeats. 

The  prolonged  strain  of  the  heavy  dual  work  added  to 
by  an  eager  experimentation  with  certain  psychic  phe- 
nomena with  which  he  had  long  been  familiar  but  wished 
further  to  investigate,  efforts  in  which  at  times  he  and 
Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  collaborated — began  to  tell  heavily  on 
him,  and  to  produce  very  disquieting  symptoms  of  nerv- 
ous collapse.  We  decided  therefore  that  he  should  pass 
the  dead  months  of  the  year,  as  he  called  December  and 
January,  in  the  South  of  France.  From  St.  Remy  while 
on  a  visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janvier  he  wrote  to  me: 

"  I  am  not  going  to  lament  that  even  the  desire  to 
think-out  anything  has  left  me — much  less  the  wish  to 
write — for  I  am  sure  that  is  all  in  the  order  of  the  day 
towards  betterness.  But  I  do  now  fully  realise  that  I 
must  give  up  everything  to  getting  back  my  old  buoy- 
ancy and  nervous  strength — and  that  prolonged  rest  and 
open  air  are  the  paramount  needs.  .  .  . 

However,  enough  of  this,  henceforth  I  hope  to  have  to 
think  of  and  report  on  the  up-wave  only. 

I  am  seated  in  a  little  room  close  to  the  window — and 
as  I  look  out  I  first  see  the  boughs  of  a  gigantic  syca- 
more through  which  the  mistral  is  roaring  with  a  noise 
like  a  gale  at  sea.  Beyond  this  is  a  line  of  cypresses,  and 
apparently  within  a  stone's  throw  are  the  extraordinary 
wildly  fantastic  mountain-peaks  of  St.  Remy.  I  have 
never  seen  anything  like  them.  No  wonder  they  are 
called  the  Dolomites  of  France.  They  are,  too,  in  aspect 
unspeakably  ancient  and  remote. 

We  are  practically  in  the  country,  and  in  every  way, 
with  its  hill-air  and  beauty,  the  change  from  Tarascon  is 


FEOM   THE   HILLS    OF   DREAM  283 

most  welcome.  .  .  .  There  is  a  strange  but  singularly 
fascinating  blend  of  north  and  south  here  just  now.  The 
roar  of  the  mistral  has  a  wild  wintry  soimd,  and  the  hiss- 
ing of  the  wood  fire  is  also  suggestive  of  the  north:  and 
then  outside  there  are  the  unmistakable  signs  of  the  south 
and  those  fantastic  unreal  like  hills.  I  never  so  fully 
recognise  how  intensely  northern  I  am  than  when  I  am 
in  the  south.  ..." 

The  following  fragment  of  a  diary — all  there  is  for 
1897 — gives  a  record  of  the  work  he  had  in  progress :  also 
shows  his  way  of  noting  (or  not  noting!)  his  outgoing  ex- 
penses : 

January  1st,  1897. — A  day  of  extreme  beauty  at 
Sainte-Maxime  (Var).  In  the  morning  wrote  letters  etc., 
and  then  walked  into  Sainte-Maxime  and  posted  them, 
and  sent  a  telegram  to  Elizabeth,  to  be  delivered  at  din- 
ner time,  with  New  Year  greetings  and  Fair  Wishes. 

Worked  at  "  Ahez  the  Pale,"  and,  having  finished  the 
revision  of  it  from  first  to  last,  did  it  up  with  "  The 
Archer,"  and  then  sent  (with  long  letter  of  general  in- 
structions about  the  re-issue  of  F.  M's  tales  in  3  vols., 
Spiritual  Tales,  Barbaric  Tales,  and  Tragic  Romances) 
to  Lilian  Rea,  at  the  Outlook  Tower. 

After  dinner  went  a  long  walk  by  the  sea.  Noticed  a 
IDeculiarity  by  which  tho'  the  sea  was  dead  calm,  and  on 
the  eastern  side  of  the  littoral  of  Ste.  Maxime  made 
hardly  a  ripple,  the  noise  on  the  further  side  was  like 
that  of  a  rushing  train  or  of  a  wind  among  pinewoods. 
I  walked  round,  and  found  oily  waves  beating  heavily  on 
the  shore.  Tidal,  possibly.  Expenses  today:  Letters 
3.90,  Telegrams  5.90,  Poor  Man  30.    Board  &c  at  hotel. 

Total    "     ". 

After  his  return  to  London  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier : 

Gbosvenob  Club, 
March  10,  1897. 

.  .  .  Although  I  have  had  an  unpleasant  mental  and 
physical   set-back   the   last   three  days,   I   am   steadily 


284  WILLIAM    SHARP 

(at  least  I  hope  so)  gaining  ground — but  I  have  never 
yet  regained  the  health  or  spirits  I  was  in  at  St.  Remy, 
tho'  even  there  far  more  worn  in  mind  and  body  than 
even  you  guessed.  But  with  the  spring  I  shall  get  well. 
I  am  heart  and  soul  with  Greece  in  this  war  of  race 
and  freedom — and  consider  the  so-called  "  Concert "  a 
mockery  and  a  sham.  It  is  a  huge  Capitalist  and  Reac- 
tionary Bogus  Company.  Fortunately  the  tide  of  in- 
dignation is  daily  rising  here — and  even  the  Conserva- 
tive papers  are  at  one  with  the  Liberal  on  the  central 
points.  Were  I  a  younger  man — or  rather  were  I  free 
— I  would  now  be  in  Greece  or  on  my  way  to  join  the 
Hellenes.  As  you  will  see  by  enclosed,  I  am  one  of  the 
authors  who  have  sent  a  special  message  to  the  Athenian 
President  of  the  Chamber.  It  is  a  stirring  time,  and  in 
many  ways.  .  .  . 

March  22d. 

.  .  .  What  a  whirl  of  excitement  life  is,  just  now.  I 
am  all  on  fire  about  the  iniquities  of  this  Turkish-Fi- 
nance triumjoh  over  honour,  chivalry,  and  the  old-time 
sense  that  the  world  can  be  well  lost.  There  are  many 
other  matters,  too,  for  deep  excitement — international, 
national,  literary,  artistic,  personal.  It  is  the  season  of 
sap,  of  the  young  life,  of  green  fire.  Heart-pulses  are 
throbbing  to  the  full:  brains  are  effervescing  under  the 
strong  ferment  of  the  wine  of  life:  the  spiral  flames  of 
the  spirit  and  the  red  flower  of  the  flesh  are  fanned  and 
consumed  and  recreated  and  fanned  anew  every  hour 
of  every  day.  .  .  . 

This  is  going  to  be  a  strange  year  in  many  ways :  a  year 
of  spiritual  flames  moving  to  and  fro,  of  wild  vicissitudes 
for  many  souls  and  for  the  forces  that  move  through  the 
minds  of  men.  The  West  will  redden  in  a  new  light — the 
'  west '  of  the  forlorn  peoples  who  congregate  among  our 
isles  in  Ireland — '  the  West '  of  the  dispeopled  mind. 

The  common  Soul  is  open — one  can  see  certain  shad- 
ows and  lights  as  though  in  a  mirror.  .  .  .  [The  letter 
ends  abruptly.] 


FROM    THE   HILLS    OF   DREAM  285 

Towards  the  end  of  April  I  went  to  Paris  to  write  upon 
the  two  "  Salons,"  and  my  husband,  still  very  imwell, 
went  to  St.  Margaret's  Bay,  whence  he  wrote  to  me : 

Sunday  (on  the  shore  by  the  sea,  and  in  the  sun- 
shine). I  wonder  what  you  are  doing  today?  I  feel  very 
near  you  in  spirit  as  I  always  do  when  I  have  been  read- 
ing, hearing,  or  seeing  any  beautiful  thing — and  this  fore- 
noon I  have  done  all  three,  for  I  am  looking  uj^on  the 
beauty  of  sunlit  wind-swept  sea,  all  pale  green  and  white, 
and  upon  the  deep  blue  sky  above  the  white  cliffs,  upon 
the  jackdaws  and  gulls  dense  black  or  snowy  against  the 
azure,  upon  the  green  life  along  and  up  the  cliff-face, 
upon  the  yellow-green  cystus  bushes  below — and  am  list- 
ening to  the  sough  of  the  wind,  soft  and  balmy,  and  the 
rush  and  break  of  the  sunlit  waves  among  the  pebbly 
reaches  just  beyond  me — and  have  been  reading  Maeter- 
linck's two  essays,  "  The  Deeper  Life  "  and  "  The  Inner 
Beauty." 

I  am  longing  to  be  regularly  at  work  again — and  now 
feel  as  if  at  last  I  can  do  so.  .  .  . 

More  and  more  absolutely,  in  one  sense,  are  W.  S.  and 
F.  M.  becoming  two  persons — often  married  in  mind  and 
one  nature,  but  often  absolutely  distinct.  I  am  filled  with 
a  passion  of  dream  and  work.  .  .  . 

Friendship,  deepening  into  serene  and  beautiful  flame, 
is  one  of  the  most  ennobling  and  lovely  influences  the 
world  has.  .  .  . 

WiLFioisr. 

P.  S.  Again  some  more  good  tidings.  Constables  have 
accepted  my  giving  up  The  Lily  Leven  indefinitely — and 
instead  have  agreed  to  my  projjosal  to  write  a  child's 
book  (dealing  with  the  Celtic  Wonderworld)  to  be  called 
The  Laughter  of  Peterkin.  .  .  . 

From  Paris  I  went  to  St.  Remy  for  a  short  visit  to 
our  friends  the  Janviers,  and  my  birthday  found  me  still 
there.    My  husband  had  been  considerably  perplexed  how 


286  WILLIAM   SHARP 

lie  was  to  celebrate  the  day  for  me  from  a  distance.  On 
the  early  morning  of  the  17th  of  May  the  waiter  brought 
me  my  coffee  and  my  letters  to  my  room  as  usual,  and 
told  me  gravely  that  a  large  packet  had  arrived  for  me, 
during  the  night,  with  orders  that  it  should  not  be  de- 
livered to  me  till  the  morning.  Should  it  be  brought  up 
stairs?  The  next  moment  the  door  was  pushed  open  and 
in  came  the  radiant  smiling  unexpected  apparition  of 
my  Poet!  In  a  little  town  an  event  of  this  sort  is  soon 
known  to  everyone,  and  that  evening  when  he  and  I  went 
for  a  walk,  and  sauntered  through  the  little  boulevards, 
we  found  we  were  watched  for  and  greeted  by  everyone, 
and  heads  were  popped  out  of  windows  just  to  see  "  les 
amants." 

After  his  equally  rapid  return  to  town  he  wrote  to  me : 

"  It  seems  very  strange  to  be  here  and  at  work  again — 
or  rather  it  is  the  interlude  that  seems  so  strange  and 
dreamlike.  This  time  last  week  it  was  not  quite  cer- 
tain if  I  could  get  away,  as  it  depended  partly  upon  fin- 
ishing the  Maeterlinck  Essay  and  partly  upon  the  post- 
ponement of  due  date  for  the  monograph  on  Orchardson. 
Then  Richard  Whiteing  came  in.  Then  at  last  I  said 
that  since  fortune  wouldn't  hurry  up  it  could  go  to  the 
devil — and  I  would  just  go  to  my  dear  wife:  and  so  I 
went.  And  all  is  well.  Only  a  week  ago  today  since  I 
left !  How  dramatic  it  all  is — that  hurried  journey,  the 
long  afternoon  and  night  journey  from  Paris,  the  long 
afternoon  and  night  journey  to  Tarascon — the  drive 
at  dawn  and  sunrise  through  beautiful  Provence — the 
meeting  you — the  seeing  our  dear  friends  there  again. 
And  then  that  restful  Sunday,  that  lovely  birthday ! " 

And  again  a  few  days  later: 

"  Herewith  my  typed  copy  of  your  AVilfion's  last  writ- 
ing. Called  '  The  Wayfarer '  though  possibly,  after- 
wards, *  Where  God  is,  there  is  Light,'  it  is  one  of  the 
three  Spiritual  Moralities  of  which  you  know  two  already, 


FEOM    THE   HILLS    OF   DEEAM  287 

*  The  Fisher  of  Men '  and  '  The  Last  Supper.'  In  an- 
other way,  the  same  profound  truth  is  emphasised  as  in 
the  other  two — that  Love  is  the  basic  law  of  spiritual  life. 
'  The  Eedeemer  liveth '  in  these  three :  Compassion, 
Beauty,  Love — the  three  chords  on  which  these  three 
harmonies  of  Fiona's  inner  life  have  been  bom.  ..." 

"  The  Wayfarer  "  was  published  in  Cosmopolis,  and 
afterwards  included  in  The  Winged  Destiny. 

On  the  10th  of  June  the  author  went  for  a  night  to  Bur- 
ford  Bridge,  in  order  to  have  some  talks  with  George 
Meredith.  While  there  he  began  to  write  '^  The  Glory  of 
the  King,"  and  two  days  later  he  finished  it  on  reaching 
home. 

In  the  summer  of  1897  he  visited  Ireland  for  the 
first  time.  In  Dublin  he  met  Mr.  George  Eussell — 
whose  beautiful  verse  was  first  published  over  the  initials 
A.  E. — Mr.  Standish  O'Grady  and  other  writers  with 
whom  he  had  been  in  correspondence;  and  he  greatly 
enjoyed  a  visit  to  Mr.  Edward  Martin  at  Tilly ra  Castle 
in  Galway. 

Among  several  enthusiastic  letters  I  received  the  fol- 
lowing : 

...  I  find  it  almost  impossible  to  attempt  to  tell  you 
the  varied  and  beautiful  delights  of  this  lovely  place. 
.  .  .  The  country  is  strange  and  fascinating — at  once  so 
austere,  so  remote,  so  unusual,  and  so  characteristic.  .  .  . 

Lord  Morris,  and  Martin  and  I  go  off  today  "  to  show 
me  the  beauties  of  the  wild  coast  of  Clare."  It  is  glori- 
ous autumnal  weather,  with  unclouded  sky,  and  I  am 
looking  forward  to  the  trip  immensely.  We  leave  at  11, 
and  drive  to  Ardrahan,  and  there  get  a  train  southward 
into  County  Clare,  and  at  Ennis  catch  a  little  loopline  to 
the  coast.  Then  for  two  hours  we  drive  to  the  famous 
Cliffs  of  Moher,  gigantic  precipices  facing  the  Atlantic 
— and  then  for  two  hours  move  round  the  wild  headlands 
of  Blackhead — and  so,  in  the  afternoon,  to  the  beautiful 
Clare  '  spa '  of  Lisdoonvarna,  where  we  dine  late  and 


288  WILLIAM   SHAKP 

sleep.  Next  day  we  return  by  some  famous  Round  Tower 
of  antiquity,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  Another  day 
soon  we  are  to  go  into  Galway,  and  to  the  Aran  Isles. 

On  Thursday  Yeats  arrives,  also  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde, 
and  possibly  Standish  O'Grady — and  Lady  Gregor^y,  one 
of  the  moving  spirits  in  this  projected  new  Celtic  Drama. 
She  is  my  host's  nearest  neighbour,  and  has  a  lovely  place 
(Coole  Park)  about  five  miles  southwest  from  here,  near 
Gort.  I  drove  there,  with  Sir  N.  G.  yesterday,  in  a  car, 
through  a  strange  fascinating  austere  country. 

The  i^eople  here  are  distinct  from  any  I  have  seen — 
and  the  women  in  particular  are  very  striking  with  their 
great  dark  eyes,  and  lovely  complexions  and  their  pict- 
uresque '  snoods.' 

The  accent  is  not  very  marked,  and  the  voices  are  low 
and  pleasant,  and  the  people  courteous  to  a  high  degree. 

In  the  evening  we  had  music — and  so  ended  delight- 
fully my  first  delightful  day  in  the  west.  .  .  . 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  arrived  late — and  of  course 
at  Athenry  only — some  14  miles  from  here.  I  had  to  wait 
some  time  till  a  car  could  be  got — and  what  a  drive  I 
had !  The  man  said  that  "  Plaze  God,  he  would  have  me 
at  Tull-lyra  before  the  gintry  had  given  me  up  entoirely  " 
— and  he  was  as  good  as  his  word !  The  night  was  dark, 
and  the  roads  near  Athenry  awful  after  the  recent  gale 
and  rains — and  it  was  no  joke  to  hold  on  to  the  car. 
Whenever  we  came  to  a  j^articularly  bad  bit  (and  I  de- 
clared afterwards  that  he  took  some  of  the  stone  dykes 
at  a  leap)  he  cried — "  Now  thin  yer  honour,  whin  I  cry 
Whiroo!  you  hould  on  an'  trust  to  God  " — and  then  came 
his  wild  Whiroo  I  and  the  horse  seemed  to  spring  from  the 
car,  and  the  jarvey  and  I  to  be  flying  alongside,  and  my 
rope-bound  luggage  to  be  kicking  against  the  stars — and 
then  we  came  down  with  a  thud,  and  when  I  had  a  gasp  of 
refound  breath  I  asked  if  the  road  was  as  smooth  and 
easy  all  the  way,  whereat  my  friend  laughed  genially  and 
said  "  Be  aisy  at  that  now — shure  we're  coming  to  the  bad 
bit  soon !  "  .  .  . 

Not  far  from  here  is  a  fairy-doctor,  I  am  going  to  see 


FEOM   THE   HILLS    OF   DREAM  289 

him  some  day.  It  is  strange  that  when  one  day  Lady 
Gregory  took  one  of  Russell's  mystical  drawings  (I  think 
of  the  Mor  Reega)  and  showed  it  to  an  old  woman,  she 
at  once  exclaimed  that  that  was  the  "  photograph  "  of  the 
fairy  queen  she  had  often  seen,  only  that  the  strange 
girdle  of  fan-flame  was  round  her  waist  and  not  on  her 
head  as  in  the  drawing.  An  old  man  here  also  has  often 
met  "  the  secret  people,"  and  when  asked  to  describe  one 
strange  "  fairy  lord  "  he  has  encountered  more  than  once, 
it  was  so  like  G.  R's  drawing  that  that  was  shown  him 
among  several  others,  and  he  at  once  picked  it  out! 
It  is  a  haunted  land. 

In  haste  (and  hunger), 

WiLF. 

P.  S.  I  have  been  thinking  much  over  my  long-pro- 
jected consecutive  work  (i.  e.  as  W.  S.) — in  five  sequel 
books — on  the  drama  of  life  as  seen  in  the  evolution  of 
the  dreams  of  youth — begun,  indeed,  over  ten  years  ago 
in  Paris — but  presciently  foregone  till  ten  maturing  years 
should  pass. 

But  now  the  time  has  come  when  I  may,  and  should, 
and  indeed,  now,  must,  write  this  Epic  of  Youth.  That 
will  be  its  general  collective  name — and  it  will  interest 
you  to  know  the  now  definitely  fixt  names  of  these  five 
(and  all  very  long)  books;  each  to  be  distinct  and  com- 
plete in  itself,  yet  all  sequently  connected:  and  organic 
and  in  the  true  sense  dramatic  evolution  of  some  seven 
central  types  of  men  and  women  from  youth  to  maturity 
and  climax,  along  the  high  and  low,  levels. 

Name:  The  Epic  of  Youth. 

I.  The  Hunters  of  Wisdom. 

II.  The  Tyranny  of  Dreams. 

III.  The  Star  of  Fortune. 

IV.  The  Daughters  of  Vengeance. 

V.  The  Iron  Gates. 

This  will  take  five  years  to  do — so  it  is  a  big  task  to  set, 
before  the  end  of  1902 ! — especially  as  I  have  other  work 
to  do,  and  F.  M's,  herself  as  ambitious.    But  method,  and 


290  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

maturer  power  and  thought,  can  accomplish  with  far 
less  nervous  output,  what  otherwise  was  impossible,  and 
only  at  a  killing  or  at  least  perilous  strain. 
So  wish  me  well ! 

But  the  pressure  of  health,  of  the  needs  of  daily  liveli- 
hood, and  of  the  more  dominating  ambitions  of  F.  M. 
prevented  the  fulfilment  of  this  scheme. 

Many  times  he  talked  of  it,  drafted  out  portions  of  it — 
but  it  remained  unaccomplished,  and  all  that  exists  of  it 
is  the  beginning  chapters  of  the  first  book  written  in 
Paris  ten  years  before,  and  then  called  Ccdsar  of  France. 

London  proved  to  be  impossible  to  him  owing  to  the  ex- 
citable condition  of  his  brain.  Therefore  he  took  rooms 
in  Hastings  whence  he  wrote  to  me : 

Nov.  21,   1897. 

I  am  so  glad  to  be  here,  in  this  sunlight  by  the  sea. 
Light  and  motion — what  a  joy  these  are.  The  eyes  be- 
come devitalised  in  the  pall  of  London  gloom.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  glorious  amplitude  of  light.  The  mind 
bathes  in  these  illimitable  vistas.  Wind  and  Wave  and 
Sun :  how  regenerative  these  elder  brothers  are. 

Solomon  says  there  is  no  delight  like  wisdom,  and  that 
wisdom  is  the  heritage  of  age :  but  there  is  a  divine  un- 
wisdom which  is  the  heritage  of  youth — and  I  would 
rather  be  young  for  a  year  than  wise  for  a  cycle.  There 
are  some  who  live  without  the  pulse  of  youth  in  the 
mind :  on  the  day,  in  the  hour,  I  no  longer  feel  that  quick 
pulse,  I  will  go  out  like  a  blown  flame.  To  be  young; 
to  keep  young :  that  is  the  story  and  despair  of  life.  .  .  . 

Among  the  Christmas  publications  of  1897  appeared 
The  Laughter  of  Peterkin  by  Fiona  Macleod.  This  book, 
issued  by  Messrs.  Archibald  Constable  and  illustrated  by 
Mr.  Sunderland  Rollinson,  was  a  new  departure  for  the 
author,  an  interlude  in  the  midst  of  more  strenuous  orig- 
inal work,  for  it  was  the  re-telling  of  three  old  tales  of 
Celtic  Wonderland :  "  The  Four  White  Swans,"  or  "  The 


FEOM    THE   HILLS   OF   DREAM  291 

Children  of  Lir,"  "  The  Fate  of  the  Sons  of  Turenn,"  and 
"  Darthool  and  the  Sons  of  Usna." 

Some  years  later,  after  the  publication  of  Lady  Greg- 
ory's "  Gods  and  Fighting  Men,"  Mr.  Alfred  Nutt  wrote 
to  F.  M.  and  suggested  that  she  should  again  turn  her  at- 
tention to  the  re-telling  of  some  of  the  beautiful  old 
Celtic  tales  and  legends.  My  husband,  however,  realised 
that  he  had  far  more  dreams  haunting  the  chambers  of 
his  mind  than  he  could  have  time  to  give  expression  to. 
Therefore,  very  regretfully,  he  felt  constrained  to  fore- 
go what  otherwise  would  have  been  a  work  of  love. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

WIVES    IN    EXILE 

Silence  Farm 

The  production  of  the  Fiona  Macleod  work  was  accom- 
plished at  a  heavy  cost  to  the  author  as  that  side  of  his 
nature  deepened  and  became  dominant.  The  strain  upon 
his  energies  was  excessive:  not  only  from  the  necessity 
of  giving  expression  to  the  two  sides  of  his  nature;  but 
because  of  his  desire,  that,  while  under  the  cloak  of  se- 
crecy F.  M.  should  develop  and  grow,  the  reputation 
of  William  Sharp  should  at  the  same  time  be  maintained. 
Moreover  each  of  the  two  natures  had  its  own  needs  and 
desires,  interests  and  friends.  The  needs  of  each  were 
not  always  harmonious  one  with  the  other,  but  created 
a  complex  condition  that  led  to  a  severe  nervous  collapse. 
The  immediate  result  of  the  illness  was  to  cause  an  acute 
depression  and  restlessness  that  necessitated  a  continual 
change  of  environment.  In  the  early  part  of  1898  he  went 
in  turn  to  Dover,  to  Bournemouth,  Brighton,  and  St.  Mar- 
garet's Bay.  He  was  much  alone,  except  for  the  occa- 
sional visit  of  an  intimate  friend ;  for  I  could  go  to  him  at 
the  week-ends  only,  as  I  had  the  work  in  London  to  at- 
tend to.  The  sea,  and  solitude,  however,  proved  his  best 
allies. 

To  Mrs.  Janvier  he  wrote : 

...  I  am  skirting  the  wood  of  shadows.  I  am  filled 
with  vague  fears — and  yet  a  clear  triumphant  laughter 
goes  through  it,  though  whether  of  life  or  death  no  one 
knows.  I  am  also  in  a  duel  with  other  forces  than  those 
of  human  wills — and  I  need  all  my  courage  and  strength. 
At  the  moment  I  have  recovered  my  physic  control  over 
certain  media.     It  cannot  last  more  than  a  few  days 

292 


WIVES   IN    EXILE  293 

at  most  a  few  weeks  at  a  time:  but  in  that  time  /  am 
myself.  .  .  . 

Let  there  be  peace  in  your  heart :  peace  and  hope  trans- 
muted into  joy :  in  your  mind,  the  dusking  of  no  shadow, 
the  menace  of  no  gloom,  but  light,  energy,  full  life :  and  to 
you  in  your  whole  being,  the  pulse  of  youth,  the  flame  of 
green  fire.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  April  he  wrote  to  R.  Murray  Gilchrist 
from  St.  Margaret's  Bay : 

My  dear  Feiend, 

I  know  you  will  have  been  sorry  to  hear  that  I  have 
been  ill — and  had  to  leave  work,  and  home.  The  imme- 
diate cause  was  a  severe  and  sudden  attack  of  influenza 
which  went  to  membranes  of  the  head  and  brain,  and  all 
but  resulted  in  brain  fever.  This  evil  was  averted — but 
it  and  the  possible  collapse  of  your  friend  Will  were  at 
one  time,  and  for  some  days,  an  imminent  probability. 

I  have  now  been  a  fortnight  in  this  quiet  sea-haven, 
and  am  practically  myself  again.  Part  of  my  work  is 
now  too  hopelessly  in  arrears  ever  to  catch  up.  Fortu- 
nately, our  friend  Miss  F.  M.  practically  finished  her 
book  just  before  she  got  ill  too — and  there  is  a  likelihood 
that  There  is  But  One  Love  [published  in  the  following 
year  under  the  title  of  The  Dominion  of  Dreams']  will 
come  out  this  Spring.  A  few  days  will  decide.  .  .  . 

Your  friend  and  Sunlover, 
(in  the  deep  sense  you  know  I  mean — for  I 
have  suffered  much,  but  am  now  again  front- 
ing life  gravely  and  with  laughing  eyes), 

Will. 

and  again  after  his  return  to  London : 

Rutland  House. 
My  dear  Robert, 

.  .  .  After  months  of  sickness,  at  one  time  at  the 
gates  of  death,  I  am  whirled  back  from  the  Iron  Gates 
and  am  in  the  maelstrom  again — fighting  with  mind  and 


294  WILLIAM    SHARP 

soul  and  body  for  that  inevitable  losing  game  which  we 
call  victory.  Well,  the  hour  waits :  and  for  good  or  ill  I 
put  forth  that  which  is  in  me.  The  Utmost  for  the  High- 
est.    There  is  that  motto  for  all  faithful  failures.  .  .  . 

I  am  busy  of  course.  And  so,  too,  our  friend  F.  M. — 
with  an  elixir  of  too  potent  life.  The  flame  is  best:  and 
the  keener,  the  less  obscured  of  smoke.  So  I  believe: 
upon  this  I  build.  Cosmopolis  will  ere  long  have  "  The 
Wayfarer  "  of  hers — Good  Words  "  The  Wells  of  Peace  " 
— Harpers,  something — Literature  a  spiritual  ballad — 
and  so  forth.  But  her  life  thought  is  in  another  and 
stranger  thing  than  she  has  done  yet.^  .  .  .  Your 
friend  W.  S.  is  busy  too,  with  new  and  deeper  and 
stronger  work.  The  fugitive  powers  impel.  I  look 
eagerly  to  new  work  of  yours :  above  all  to  what  you 
colour  with  yourself.  I  care  little  for  anything  that  is  not 
quick  with  that  volatile  part  of  one  which  is  the  effluence 
of  the  spirit  within.  Write  to  me  soon :  by  return  best  of 
all.    You  can  help  me — as  I,  I  hope,  can  help  you. 

It  is  only  the  fullest  and  richest  lives  that  know  what 
the  heart  of  loneliness  is. 

You  are  my  comrade,  and  have  my  love, 

Will. 

Two,  among  the  many  letters  he  wrote  to  me  during 
that  Spring — so  full  of  suffering  for  him  and  anxiety  for 
me — are,  I  think,  very  indicative  of  the  two  phases  of  his 
nature.  The  first  relates  to  views  we  held  in  common; 
the  second  gives  an  insight  into  the  primitive  elemental 
soul  that  so  often  swayed  him,  and  his  work. 

March  29,   1898. 

.  .  .  Yes,  in  essentials,  we  are  all  at  one.  We  have 
both  learned  and  unlearned  so  much,  and  we  have  come  to 
see  that  we  are  wrought  mysteriously  by  forces  beyond 
ourselves,  but  in  so  seeing  we  know  that  there  is  a  great 
and  deep  love  that  conquers  even  disillusion  and  disap- 
pointment. .  .  . 

*  The  Divine  Adventure. 


WIVES   IN   EXILE  295 

Not  all  the  wishing,  not  all  the  dreaming,  not  all  the 
will  and  hope  and  prayer  we  summon  can  alter  that 
within  us  which  is  stronger  than  ourselves.  This  is  a 
hard  lesson  to  learn  for  all  of  us,  and  most  for  a  woman. 
We  are  brought  up  within  such  an  atmosphere  of  conven- 
tional untruth  to  life  that  most  people  never  even  per- 
ceive the  hopeless  futility  in  the  arbitrary  ideals  which 
are  imposed  upon  us — and  the  result  for  the  deeper  na- 
tures, endless  tragic  miscarriage  of  love,  peace,  and  hope. 
But,  fortunately,  those  of  us  who  to  our  own  suffering 
do  see  only  too  clearly,  can  still  strike  out  a  nobler  ideal 
— one  that  does  not  shrink  from  the  deepest  responsibili- 
ties and  yet  can  so  widen  and  deepen  the  heart  and  spirit 
with  love  that  what  else  would  be  irremediable  pain  can 
be  transmuted  into  hope,  into  peace,  and  even  into  Joy. 

People  talk  much  of  this  and  that  frailty  or  this  or  that 
circumstance  as  being  among  the  commonest  disinte- 
grants  of  happiness.  But  far  more  fatal  for  many  of  us 
is  that  supreme  disintegrant,  the  Tyranny  of  Love — the 
love  which  is  forever  demanding  as  its  due  that  which  is 
wholly  independent  of  l)onds,  which  is  as  the  wind  which 
bloweth  where  it  listeth  or  where  it  is  impelled,  by  the 
Spirit.  We  are  taught  such  hopeless  lies.  And  so  men 
and  women  start  life  with  ideals  which  seem  fair,  but  are 
radically  consumptive :  ideals  that  are  not  only  bound  to 
perish,  but  that  could  not  survive.  The  man  of  fifty  who 
could  be  the  same  as  he  was  at  twenty  is  simply  a  man 
whose  mental  and  spiritual  life  stopped  short  while  he 
was  yet  a  youth.  The  woman  of  forty  who  could  have 
the  same  outlook  on  life  as  the  girl  of  19  or  20  would 
never  have  been  other  than  one  ignominiously  deceived 
or  hopelessly  self-sophisticated.  This  ought  not  to  be — 
but  it  must  be  as  long  as  young  men  and  women  are  fed 
mentally  and  spiritually  upon  the  foolish  and  cowardly 
lies  of  a  false  and  corrupt  conventionalism. 

No  wonder  that  so  many  fine  natures,  men  and  women, 
are  wrought  to  lifelong  suffering.  They  are  started  with 
impossible  ideals :  and  while  some  can  never  learn  that 
their  unhappiness  is  the  result,  not  of  the  falling  short 


296  WILLIAM   SHARP 

of  others,  but  of  the  falsity  of  those  ideals  which  they 
had  so  cherished — and  while  others  learn  first  strength  to 
endure  the  transmutations  and  then  power  to  weld  these 
to  far  nobler  and  finer  uses  and  ends — for  both  there  is 
suffering.  Yet,  even  of  that  we  make  too  much.  We 
have  all  a  tendency  to  nurse  grief.  The  brooding  spirit 
craves  for  the  sunlight,  but  it  will  not  leave  the  shadows. 
Often,  Sorroiv  is  our  best  ally. 

The  other  night,  tired,  I  fell  asleep  on  my  sofa.  I 
dreamed  that  a  beautiful  spirit  was  standing  beside  me. 
He  said :  "  My  Brother,  I  have  come  to  give  you  the  su- 
preme gift  that  will  heal  you  and  save  you."  I  answered 
eagerly :  "  Give  it  me — what  is  it?  "  And  the  fair  radiant 
spirit  smiled  with  beautiful  solemn  eyes,  and  blew  a 
breath  into  the  tangled  garden  of  my  heart — and  when  I 
looked  there  I  saw  the  tall  white  Flower  of  Sorrow  grow- 
ing in  the  Sunlight." 

(To  E.  A.  S.) 

St.  Margaret's  Bay, 

May,  1898. 

I  have  had  a  very  happy  and  peaceful  afternoon.  The 
isolation,  with  sun  and  wind,  were  together  like  soft 
cream  upon  my  nerves :  and  I  suppose  that  within  twenty 
minutes  after  I  left  the  station  I  was  not  only  serenely  at 
peace  with  the  world  in  general,  but  had  not  a  perturbing 
thought.  To  be  alone,  alone  *  in  the  open '  above  all,  is 
not  merely  healing  to  me  but  an  imperative  necessity  of 
my  life — and  the  chief  counter  agent  to  the  sap  that  al- 
most every  person  exercises  on  me,  unless  obviated  by 
frequent  and  radical  interruption. 

By  the  time  I  had  passed  through  the  village  I  was 
already  '  remote '  in  dreams  and  thoughts  and  poignant 
outer  enjoyment  of  the  lovely  actualities  of  sun  and  wind 
and  the  green  life :  and  when  I  came  to  my  favourite  coign 
where,  sheltered  from  the  bite  of  the  wind,  I  could  over- 
look the  sea  (a  mass  of  lovely,  radiant,  amethyst-shad- 
owed, foam-swept  water),  I  lay  down  for  two  restful 
happy  hours  in  ivhich  not  once  a  thought  of  London  or  of 


WIVES    IN    EXILE  297 

any  one  in  it,  or  of  any  one  living,  came  to  me.  This 
power  of  living  absolutely  in  the  moment  is  worth  not 
only  a  crown  and  all  that  a  crown  could  give,  but  is  the 
secret  of  youth,  the  secret  of  life. 

0  how  weary  I  am  of  the  endless  recurrence  of  the 
ordinary  in  the  lives  of  most  people — the  beloved  rou- 
tine, the  cherished  monotonies,  the  treasured  certainties. 
I  grudge  them  to  none :  they  seem  incidental  to  the  com- 
mon weal:  indeed  they  seem  even  made  for  happiness. 
But  I  know  one  wild  heart  at  least  to  whom  life  must  come 
otherwise,  or  not  at  all. 

Today  I  took  a  little  green  leaf  o'  thorn.  I  looked  at 
the  sun  through  it,  and  a  dazzle  came  into  my  brain — and 
I  wished,  ah  I  wished  I  were  a  youth  once  more,  and  was 
*  sun-brother  '  and  '  star-brother '  again — to  lie  down  at 
night,  smelling  the  earth,  and  rise  at  dawn,  smelling  the 
new  air  out  of  the  East,  and  know  enough  of  men  and 
cities  to  avoid  both,  and  to  consider  little  any  gods  an- 
cient or  modern,  loiowing  well  that  there  is  only  '  The 
Red  God '  to  think  of,  he  who  lives  and  laughs  in  the  red 
blood.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  fever  of  the  '  green  life  '  in  my  veins — below 
all  the  ordinary  littlenesses  of  conventional  life  and  all 
the  common  place  of  exterior:  a  fever  that  makes  me  ill 
at  ease  with  people,  even  those  I  care  for,  that  fills  me 
with  a  weariness  beyond  words  and  a  nostalgia  for  sweet 
impossible  things. 

This  can  be  met  in  several  ways — chiefly  and  best  by 
the  practical  yoking  of  the  imagination  to  the  active  mind 
— in  a  word,  to  work.  If  I  can  do  this,  well  and  good, 
either  by  forced  absorption  in  contrary  work  (e.  g.  Ciesar 
of  France),  or  by  letting  that  go  for  the  time  and  let  the 
more  creative  instinct  have  free  play:  or  by  some  radical 
change  of  environment:  or  again  by  some  irresponsible 
and  incalculable  variation  of  work  and  brief  day-ab- 
sences. 

At  the  moment,  I  am  like  a  man  of  the  hills  held  in  fee : 
I  am  willing  to  keep  my  bond,  to  earn  my  wage,  to  hold  to 
the  foreseen :  and  yet  any  moment  a  kestrel  may  fly  over- 


298  WILLIAM    SHAKP 

head,  mocking  me  with  a  rock-echo,  where  only  sun  and 
wind  and  bracken  live — or  an  eddy  of  wind  may  have  the 
sough  of  a  pine  in  it — and  then,  in  a  flash — there's  my 
swift  brain-dazzle  in  answer,  and  all  the  rapid  falling 
away  of  these  stupid  half-realities,  and  only  a  wild  in- 
stinct to  go  to  my  own.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  he  wrote  to  a  friend : 

.  .  .  but  then,  life  is  just  like  that.  It  is  glad  only 
'  in  the  open,'  and  beautiful  only  because  of  its  dreams.  I 
wish  I  could  live  all  my  hours  out  of  doors :  I  envy  no  one 
in  the  world  so  much  as  the  red  deer,  the  eagle,  the  sea- 
mew.  I  am  sure  no  kings  have  so  royal  a  life  as  the  plo- 
vers and  curlews  have.  All  these  have  freedom,  rejoice 
continually  on  the  wind's  wing,  exalt  alike  in  sun  and 
shade :  to  them  day  is  day,  and  night  is  night,  and  there  is 
nothing  else. 

His  sense  of  recovery  was  greatly  heightened  by  a  de- 
lightful little  wander  in  Holland  in  May,  with  Mr. 
Thomas  A.  Janvier,  a  jovial,  breezy  companion.  Of  all 
he  saw  the  chief  fascination  proved  to  be  Eiland  Marken, 
as  he  wrote  to  me : 

We  are  now  in  the  south  Zuyder  Zee,  with  marvellous 
sky  effects,  and  low  lines  of  land  in  the  distance.  Look- 
ing back  at  Eiland  Marken  one  sees  six  clusters  of  houses, 
at  wide  intervals,  dropped  casually  into  the  sea. 

We  had  a  delightful  time  in  that  quaintest  of  old 
world  places,  where  the  women  are  grotesque,  the  men 
grotesquer,  and  the  children  grotesquest — as  for  the 
tubby,  capped,  gorgeous-garbed,  blue-eyed,  yellow-haired, 
imperturbable  babies,  they  alone  are  worth  coming  to 
see.  .  .  . 

The  following  is  a  letter  from  his  other  self : 

23(1  July,   1898. 

My  dear  Mr.  Ehys, 

On  my  coming  to  Edinburgh  for  a  few  days  I  find  the 
book  you  have  so  kindly  sent  to  me.  It  is  none  the  less 
welcome  because  it  comes  as  no  new  acquaintance :  for  on 


WIVES    IN    EXILE  299 

its  appearance  a  friend  we  have  in  common  sent  it  to  me. 
Alas,  that  copy  lies  among  the  sea-weed  in  a  remote 
Highland  loch;  for  the  book,  while  still  reading  in  part, 
slipped  overboard  the  small  yacht  in  which  I  was  sailing, 
and  with  it  the  MS.  of  a  short  story  of  mine  appropriately 
named  "  Beneath  the  Shadow  of  the  Wave  " !  The  two 
may  have  comforted  each  other  in  that  solitude:  or  the 
tides  may  have  carried  them  southward,  and  tossed  them 
now  to  the  Pembroke  Stacks,  now  to  the  cliffs  of  Howth. 
Perhaps  a  Welsh  crab  may  now  be  squeaking  (they  do 
say  that  crabs  make  a  whistling  squeak!)  with  a  Gaelic 
accent,  or  the  deep-sea  congers  be  reciting  Welsh  ballads 
to  the  young-lady-eels  of  the  Hebrides.  Believe  me,  your 
book  has  given  me  singular  pleasure.  I  find  in  it  the  inde- 
scribable :  and  to  me  that  is  one  of  the  tests,  perhaps  the 
supreme  test  (for  it  involves  so  much)  of  imaginative  lit- 
erature. A  nimble  air  of  the  hills  is  there ;  the  rustle  of 
remote  woods;  the  morning  cry,  that  is  so  ancient,  and 
that  still  so  thrills  us. 

I  most  eagerly  hope  that  you  will  recreate  in  beauty  the 
all  but  lost  beauty  of  the  old  Cymric  singers.  There  is  a 
true  originality  in  this,  as  in  anything  else.  The  green 
leaf,  the  grey  wave,  the  mountain  wind — after  all,  are 
they  not  murmurous  in  the  old  Celtic  poets,  whether  Al- 
ban  or  Irish  or  Welsh:  and  to  translate,  and  recreate 
anew,  from  these,  is  but  to  bring  back  into  the  world 
again  a  lost  wandering  beauty  of  hill-wind  or  green  leaf 
or  grey  wave.  There  is,  I  take  it,  no  one  living  who  could 
interpret  Davyth  ap  Gwilym  and  other  old  Welsh  singers 
as  you  could  do.  I  long  to  have  the  Green  Book  of  '  the 
Poet  of  the  Leaves '  in  English  verse,  and  in  English 
verse    such   as    that   into   which   you   could    transform 

it.  .  .  . 

P.M. 
The  Welsh  poet  replied: 

Newcastle-on-Tyne, 

27th  Dec,  1898. 

Dear  "  Fiona  Macleod," 

I  believe  I  never  wrote  to  thank  you  for  your  story  in 
the  Dome,  which  I  read  eventually  in  an  old  Welsh  tower. 


300  WILLIAM    SHARP 

It  was  the  right  i:)lace  to  read  such  a  fantasy  of  the  dark 
and  bright  blindness  of  the  Celt :  and  I  found  it,  if  not  of 
your  very  best,  yet  full  of  imaginative  stimulus. 

Not  many  weeks  ago,  in  very  different  surroundings, 
Mr.  Sharp  read  me  a  poem — two  jioems — of  yours.  So 
I  feel  that  I  have  the  sense,  at  least,  of  your  continued 
journeys  thro'  the  divine  and  earthly  regions  of  the  Gael, 
and  how  life  looks  to  you,  and  what  colours  it  wears. 
What  should  we  do  were  it  not  for  that  sense  of  the  little 
group  of  simple  and  faithful  souls,  who  love  the  clay  of 
earth  because  heaven  is  wrapt  in  it,  and  stand  by  and  sup- 
port their  lonely  fellows  in  the  struggle  against  the  forces 
upon  forces  the  world  sends  against  them?  I  trust  at 
some  time  it  may  be  my  great  good  fortune  to  see  you 
and  talk  of  these  things,  and  hear  more  of  your  doings. 

Ernest  Rhys. 

From  the  little  rock-perched,  sea-girt  Pettycur  Inn, 
my  husband  wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier : 

The  House  of  Dreams, 

20th  Dec,  1898. 

...  It  has  been  a  memorable  time  here.  I  have  writ- 
ten some  of  my  best  work — including  two  or  three  of 
the  new  things  for  The  Dominion  of  Dreams — viz.  "  The 
Rose  of  Flame,"  "  Honey  of  the  Wild  Bees,"  and  "  The 
Secrets  of  the  Night." 

What  a  glorious  day  it  has  been.  The  most  beautiful 
I  have  ever  seen  at  Pettycur  I  think.  Cloudless  blue  sky, 
clear  exquisite  air  tho'  cold,  with  a  marvellous  golden 
light  in  the  afternoon.  Arthur's  Seat,  the  Crags  and  the 
Castle  and  the  14  ranges  of  the  Pentlands  all  clear-cut 
as  steel,  and  the  city  itself  visible  in  fluent  golden  light. 
The  whole  coast-line  purple  blue,  down  to  Berwick  Law 
and  the  Bass  Rock,  and  the  Isle  of  May  16  miles  out  in  the 
north  sea. 

And  now  I  listen  to  the  gathering  of  the  tidal  waters 
under  the  stars.  There  is  an  infinite  solemnity — a  hush, 
something  sacred  and  wonderful.  A  benediction  lies  upon 
the  world.    Far  off  I  hear  the  roaming  wind.    Thoughts 


WIVES   IN   EXILE  301 

and  memories  crowd  in  on  me.  Here  I  have  lived  and 
suffered — here  I  have  touched  the  heights — here  I  have 
done  my  best.  And  now,  liere,  I  am  going  through  a  new 
birth. 

*  Sic  itur  ad  astral! ' 

During  the  years  that  F.  M.  developed  so  rapidly  her 
creator  felt  the  necessity  pressing  hard  on  him  to  sustain, 
as  far  as  he  could,  the  reputation  of  W.  S.  He  valued 
such  reputation  as  he  had  and  was  anxious  not  to  let  it 
die  away ;  yet  there  was  a  great  difference  in  the  method 
of  production  of  the  two  kinds  of  work.  The  F.  M.  writ- 
ing was  the  result  of  an  inner  impulsion,  he  wrote  be- 
cause he  had  to  give  expression  to  himself  whether  the 
impulse  grew  out  of  pain  or  out  of  pleasure.  But  W.  S., 
divorced  as  much  as  could  be  from  his  twin  self,  wrote 
because  he  cared  to,  because  the  necessities  of  life  de- 
manded it.  He  was  always  deeply  interested  in  his  crit- 
ical work,  for  he  was  a  constant  student  of  Literature  in 
all  its  forms,  and  of  the  Literature  of  different  countries 
— in  particular  of  France,  America  and  Italy.  This  form 
of  study,  this  keen  interest,  was  a  necessity  to  W.  S. ; 
but  fiction  was  to  him  a  matter  of  choice.  He  deliberately 
set  himself  to  write  the  two  novels  Wives  in  Exile  and 
Silence  Farm,  because  he  felt  W.  S.  ought  to  produce 
some  such  work  as  a  normal  procedure  and  development ; 
and  also  he  felt  it  imperative  to  show  some  result  of  the 
seclusion  he  was  known  to  seek  for  purposes  of  work.  He 
was  deeply  interested  in  both  books.  Wives  in  Exile  was 
the  easier  to  write,  as  it  gave  an  outlet  to  the  vein  of 
whimsicality  in  him,  to  his  love  of  fun.  He  delighted  in 
the  weaving  of  any  plot,  or  in  any  extravaganza.  The 
book  was  a  great  relief  and  rest  to  him  and  was  a  real 
tonic  to  his  mind. 

A  little  later,  when  he  realised  that  something  more 
was  expected  of  him  and  was  too  ill  to  attempt  anything 
in  the  shape  of  comedy,  he  therefore  set  himself  to  write 
a  tragic  tale  of  the  Lowlands,  foimded  on  a  true  incident. 
Into  this  he  put  serious  interested  work,  but  there  was 


302  WILLIAM    SHARP 

one  consideration  that  throughout  had  a  restraining  ef- 
fect on  him — he  never  forgot  that  the  book  should  not 
have  obvious  kinship  to  the  work  of  P.  M.,  that  he 
should  keep  a  considerable  amount  of  himself  in  check. 
For  there  was  a  midway  method,  that  was  a  blending  of 
the  two,  a  swaying  from  the  one  to  the  other,  which  he 
desired  to  avoid,  since  he  knew  that  many  of  the  critics 
were  on  the  watch.  Therefore,  he  strained  the  realistic 
treatment  beyond  what  he  otherwise  would  have  done, 
in  order  to  preserve  a  special  method  of  presentment. 
Nevertheless,  that  book  was  the  one  he  liked  best  of  all 
the  W.  S.  efforts,  and  he  considered  that  it  contained 
some  of  his  most  satisfactory  work.  Wives  in  Exile  was 
published  in  June  of  1896  by  Mr.  Grant  Richards,  and 
Silence  Farm  in  1897. 

The  following  letter  from  Mr.  Theodore  Watts-Dunton 
was  a  great  pleasure.  It  is,  I  believe,  the  only  written 
expression  of  what  the  author  terms  the  "  inwardness  of 
Ayhvin  " : 

The  Pines,  Putney  Hill, 

Oct.  19,  1898. 

My  deae  Sharp, 

I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  in  England,  and  had  no 
means  of  finding  your  address. 

You  read  only  a  portion  of  Aylwin — as  far,  I  think, 
as  the  discovery  that  Winifred  had  been  the  model  of 
Wilderspin.  I  always  intended  to  send  you  other  por- 
tions, but  procrastination  ruined  my  good  intentions. 
You  and  my  dear  friend  Mrs.  Sharp  were  very  kind  to  it, 
I  remember,  and  this  encourages  me  to  hope  that  when 
you  come  to  read  it  in  its  entirety,  you  will  like  it  better 
than  ever.  Although  it  is  of  course  primarily  a  love- 
story,  and,  as  such,  will  be  read  by  the  majority  of  read- 
ers, it  is  intended  to  be  the  pronouncement  of  something 
like  a  new  gospel — the  gospel  of  love  as  the  great  power 
which  stands  up  and  confronts  a  materialistic  cosmogony 
and  challenges  it  and  conquers  it.  This  gospel  of  course 
is  more  fully  expressed  in  "  The  Coming  of  Love  "  of 
which  I  send  you  a  copy,    "  The  Coming  of  Love  "  is  of 


WIVES   IN   EXILE  303 

course  a  sequel  to  Aylwin,  although,  for  certain  reasons, 
it  preceded  in  publication  the  novel.  Aylwin  appears 
in  the  last  year  of  the  present  century,  and  I  had  a 
certain  object  in  delaying  it  for  a  little  while  longer 
because  I  believe  that  should  it  have  more  than  an  ephem- 
eral existence  as  to  which  I  am  of  course  very  doubtful, 
it  will  appeal  fifty  years  hence  to  fifty  people  where  it 
now  only  appeals  to  one.  I  cannot  think  that,  when  a  man 
has  felt  the  love-passion  as  deeply  as  Aylwin  feels  it,  he 
will  find  it  possible,  whatever  physical  science  may  prove, 
to  accept  a  materialistic  theory  of  the  universe.  He 
must  either  commit  suicide  or  become  a  maniac.  .  .  . 
Henry  Aylwin  and  Percy  Aylwin,  the  Tamo  Rye  of  "  The 
Coming  of  Love,"  spring  from  the  same  Romany  ances- 
tors and  they  inherited  therefore  the  most  passionate 
blood  in  the  Western  World.  Each  of  them  is  driven  to  a 
peculiar  spiritualistic  cosmogony  by  the  love  of  a  girl — 
Winifred  Wynne  and  Rhona  Boswell,  though  the  two 
girls  are  the  exact  opposite  of  each  other  in  temperament. 
But  you  really  must  let  me  get  a  glimpse  of  you  some- 
how before  you  leave  England  again. 

Your  affectionate 

"  Aylwin." 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE    DOMINION    OF    DREAMS 

For  the  January  number  of  The  Fortnightly  Review 
for  1899  "  Fiona  "  wrote  a  long  study  on  "  A  Group  of 
Celtic  Writers  "  and  what  she  held  to  be  "  the  real  Cel- 
ticism." The  writers  specially  noted  are  W.  B.  Yeats, 
Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  George  Russell  (A.  E.),  Nora  Hopper, 
Katherine  Tynan  Hinkson,  and  Lionel  Johnson.  With 
regard  to  the  Celtic  Revival  the  writer  considered  that 
"  there  has  been  of  late  too  much  looseness  of  phrase 
concerning  the  Celtic  spirit,  the  Celtic  movement,  and 
that  mysterious  entity  Celticism.  The  '  Celtic  Renas- 
cence,' the  '  Gaelic  glamour,'  these,  for  the  most  part, 
are  shibboleths  of  the  journalist  who  if  asked  what  it  is 
that  is  being  re-born,  or  what  differentiating  qualities 
has  the  distinction  of  Gaelic  from  any  other  '  glamour,' 
or  what  constitutes  '  glamour '  itself,  would  as  we  say 
in  the  North,  be  fair  taken  aback.  .  .  .  What  is  called 
'  the  Celtic  Renascence  '  is  simply  a  fresh  development  of 
creative  energy  coloured  by  nationality,  and  moulded  by 
inherited  forces,  a  development  diverted  from  the  com- 
mon way  by  accident  of  race  and  temperament.  The 
Celtic  writer  is  the  writer  the  temper  of  whose  mind  is 
more  ancient,  more  primitive,  and  in  a  sense  more  nat- 
ural than  that  of  his  compatriot  in  whom  the  Teutonic 
strain  prevails.  The  Celt  is  always  remembering;  the 
Anglo  Saxon  has  little  patience  which  lies  far  behind 
or  far  beyond  his  own  hour.  And  as  the  Celt  comes  of  a 
people  who  grew  in  spiritual  outlook  as  they  began  what 
has  been  revealed  to  us  by  history  as  a  ceaseless  losing 
battle,  so  the  Teuton  comes  of  a  people  who  has  lost  in 
the  spiritual  life  what  they  have  gained  in  the  moral  and 
the  practical — and  I  use  moral  in  its  literal  and  proper 
sense.    The  difference  is  a  far  greater  one  than  may  be 

304 


THE   DOMINION   OF   DREAMS  305 

recognised  readily.  The  immediate  divergence  is,  that 
with  the  Celt  ancestral  memory  and  ancestral  instinct 
constitute  a  distinguishable  factor  in  his  life  and  his 
expression  of  life,  and  that  with  his  Teutonic  compatriot 
vision,  dream,  actuality  and  outlook,  are  in  the  main  re- 
stricted to  what  in  the  past  has  direct  bearing  upon  the 
present,  and  to  what  in  the  future  is  also  along  the  line 
of  direct  relation  to  the  present.  .  .  .  All  that  the 
new  generation  of  Celtic  or  Anglo-Celtic  (for  the  most 
part  Anglo-Celtic)  writers  hold  in  conscious  aim,  is  to 
interpret  anew  '  the  beauty  at  the  heart  of  things,'  not 
along  the  line  of  English  tradition  but  along  that  of  racial 
instinct,  coloured  and  informed  by  individual  temper- 
ament." 

Naturally  the  article  was  favourably  commented  upon 
in  Ireland.  The  immediate  result  in  the  English  press 
was  the  appearance  in  The  Daily  Chronicle  of  January 
28th  of  a  long  unsigned  article  entitled  "  A¥lio  is  Fiona 
Macleod :  A  Study  in  two  styles "  to  suggest  that  in 
response  to  the  cry  of  "  Author ! "  so  repeatedly  made, 
"  we  may,  in  our  search  for  Miss  Macleod,  turn  to  Mr. 
William  Sharp  himself  and  say  with  literal  truth  '  Thou 
art  beside  thyself ! '  " 

The  writer  advanced  many  proofs  in  support  of  his 
contention,  drawn  from  a  close  study  of  the  writings  and 
methods  of  work  of  W.  S.  and  F.  M. ;  and  asked,  in  con- 
clusion :  "  Will  Mr.  Sharp  deny  that  he  is  identical  with 
Miss  Macleod?  That  Miss  Macleod  is  Mr.  Sharp,  I,  for 
one,  have  not  a  lingering  doubt  and  I  congratulate  the 
latter  on  the  success,  the  real  magic  and  strength  of  the 
work  issued  under  his  assumed  name."  At  first  the  har- 
assed author  ignored  the  challenge;  but  a  few  months 
later  F.  M.  yielded  to  the  persuasion  of  her  publishers 
— who  had  a  book  of  hers  in  the  press — and  wrote  a  dis- 
claimer which  appeared  in  The  Literary  World  and  else- 
where. 

In  April  1899  The  Dominion  of  Dreams  was  published 
by  Messrs.  A.  Constable  &  Co. 


306  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

To  Mr.  Frank  Kinder  the  author  wrote : 

My  dear  Frank, 

Today  I  got  three  or  four  copies  of  The  Dominion  of 
Dreams.  I  wish  you  to  have  one,  for  this  book  is  at  once 
the  deepest  and  most  intimate  that  F.  M.  has  written. 

Too  much  of  it  is  born  out  of  incurable  heartache,  "  the 
nostalgia  for  impossible  things."  .  .  .  My  hope  is  that 
the  issues  of  life  have  been  woven  to  beauty,  for  its 
own  sake,  and  in  divers  ways  to  reach  and  help  or  enrich 
other  lives.  ..."  The  Wells  of  Peace "  must,  I 
think,  appeal  to  many  tired  souls,  spiritually  athirst. 
That  is  a  clue  to  the  whole  book — or  all  but  the  more 
impersonal  part  of  it,  such  as  the  four  opening  stories 
and  "  The  Herdsman  " ;  this  is  at  once  my  solace,  my 
hope  and  my  ideal.  If  ever  a  book  (in  the  deeper  portion 
of  it)  came  out  of  the  depths  of  a  life  it  is  this:  and  so, 
I  suppose  it  shall  live — for  by  a  mysterious  law,  only  the 
work  of  suffering,  or  great  joy,  survives,  and  that  in  de- 
gree to  its  intensity.  .  .  . 

F.  M.'s  influence  is  now  steadily  deepening  and,  thank 
God,  along  the  lines  I  have  hoped  and  dreamed.  .  .  . 
In  the  writings  to  come  I  hope  a  deeper  and  richer  and 
truer  note  of  inward  joy  and  spiritual  hope  will  be  the 
living  influence.  In  one  of  the  stories  in  this  book,  "  The 
Distant  Country "  occurs  a  sentence  that  is  to  be  in- 
scribed on  my  gravestone  when  my  time  comes. 

"  Love  is  more  great  than  we  conceive  and  Death  is  the 
keeper  of  unknown  redemptions." 

Lovingly, 
Will. 

To  another  correspondent  he  wrote : 

.  .  .  Well,  if  it  gains  wide  and  sincere  appreciation 
I  shall  be  glad :  if  it  should  practically  be  ignored  I  shall 
be  sorry:  but,  beyond  that,  I  am  indifferent.  I  know 
what  I  have  tried  to  do :  I  know  what  I  have  done :  I  know 
the  end  to  which  I  work :  I  believe  in  the  sowers  who  will 
sow  and  the  reapers  who  will  reap,  from  some  seed  of 
the  spirit  in  this  book :  and  knowing  this,  I  have  little  heed 


THE   DOMINION   OP   DEEAMS  307 

of  any  other  considerations.  Beauty,  in  itself,  for  itself, 
is  my  dream :  and  in  some  expression  of  it,  in  the  difficult 
and  subtle  art  of  words,  I  have  a  passionate  absorption." 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Macleay  W,  S.  explained  that  Fiona's 
new  book  is  the  logical  outcome  of  the  others :  the  deeper 
note,  the  vox  humana,  of  these.  I  think  it  is  more  than 
merely  likely  that  this  is  the  last  book  of  its  kind.  I 
have  had  to  live  my  books — and  so  must  follow  an  inward 
law — that  is  truth  to  art  as  well  as  to  life  I  think. 
There  is,  however,  a  miscellaneous  volume  (of  '  apprecia- 
tions,' and  mystical  studies)  and  also  a  poetic  volume 
which  I  suppose  should  be  classed  with  it.  I  imagine 
that,  thereafter,  her  development  will  be  on  unexpected 
lines,  both  in  fiction  and  the  drama:  judging  both  from 
what  I  know  and  what  I  have  seen.  In  every  sense  I 
think  you  are  right  when  you  speak  of  '  surprise '  as  an 
element  in  what  we  may  expect  from  her.  ...  I  sup- 
pose some  of  that  confounded  controversy  about  Miss  M. 
and  myself  will  begin  again.  .  .  . 

To  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  the  author  wrote  about  the  book, 
and  described  our  plans  for  the  summer : 

Monday,  1899. 

My  deae  Yeats, 

.  .  .  As  you  well  know,  all  imaginative  work  is  truly 
alive  only  when  it  has  died  into  the  mind  and  been  born 
again.  The  mystery  of  dissolution  is  the  common  mean 
of  growth.  Eesurrection  is  the  test  of  any  spiritual  idea 
— as  of  the  spiritual  life  itself,  of  art,  and  of  any  final 
expression  of  the  inward  life.  ...  I  have  been  ill — 
and  seriously — but  am  now  better,  though  I  have  to  be 
careful  still.  All  our  plans  for  Scandinavia  in  the  au- 
tumn are  now  over — partly  by  doctor's  orders,  who  says 
I  must  have  hill  and  sea  air  native  to  me — Scotland  or 
Ireland.  So  about  the  end  of  July  my  wife  and  I  intend 
to  go  to  Ireland.  It  will  probably  be  to  the  east  coast, 
Mourne  Mountains  coast.  I  hope  you  like  The  Dominion 
of  Dreams.    Miss  Macleod  has  received  two  or  three  very 


308  WILLIAM   SHAEP 

strange  and  moving  letters  from  strangers,  as  well  as 
others.  The  book  of  course  can  appeal  to  few — that  is, 
much  of  it.  But,  I  hope,  it  will  sink  deep.  We  leave  our 
flat  about  20tli  of  July.  Shall  you  be  in  town  before  then? 
I  doubt  if  I'll  ever  live  in  London  again.  It  is  not  likely. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  am  overwhelmingly  anxious  to  live 
anywhere.  I  think  you  know  enough  of  me  to  know  how 
profoundly  I  feel  the  strain  of  life — the  strain  of  double 
life.  Still,  there  is  much  to  be  done  yet.  But  for 
that  .  .  . 

Your  friend, 

William  Sharp. 

Mr.  Yeats'  Keview  of  The  Dominion  of  Dreams  in  the 
Bookman  (July  1899)  was  carefully  critical ;  it  was  his  de- 
sire "  to  discover  the  thoughts  about  which  her  thoughts 
are  woven.  Other  writers  are  busy  with  the  way  men 
and  women  act  in  joy  and  sorrow,  but  Miss  Macleod  has 
rediscovered  the  art  of  the  mythmaker  and  gives  a  visible 
shape  to  joys  and  sorrows,  and  make  them  seem  realities 
and  men  and  women  illusions.  It  was  minds  like  hers 
that  created  Aphrodite  out  of  love  and  the  foam  of  the 
sea,  and  Prometheus  out  of  human  thought  and  its  like- 
ness to  the  leaping  fire."  And  then  he  pointed  out  that 
"  every  inspiration  has  its  besetting  sin,  and  perhaps 
those  who  are  at  the  beginning  of  movements  have  no 
models  and  no  traditional  restraints.  She  has  faults 
enough  to  ruin  an  ordinary  writer.  Her  search  for  these 
resemblances  brings  her  beyond  the  borders  of  coherence. 
.  .  .  The  bent  of  nature  that  makes  her  turn  from 
circumstance  and  personalities  to  symbols  and  personifi- 
cations may  perhaps  leave  her  liable  to  an  obsession  for 
certain  emotional  words  which  have  for  her  a  kind  of 
symbolic  meaning,  but  her  love  of  old  tales  should  tell 
her  that  the  old  mysteries  are  best  told  in  simple  words." 

At  first  this  criticism  caused  the  author  much  emotional 
perturbation;  but  later,  when  he  reconsidered  the  state- 
ments, he  admitted  that  there  was  reason  for  the  cen- 
sure. 


THE   DOMINION    OF   DEEAMS  309 

"  Fiona  "  then  asked  the  Irish  poet  to  indicate  the  pas- 
sages he  took  most  exception  to,  and  Mr.  Yeats  sent  a 
carefully  annotated  copy  of  the  book  imder  discussion. 
And  I  may  add  that  a  number  of  the  revisions  that  differ- 
entiate the  version  in  the  Collected  Edition  from  the  orig- 
inal isjue  are  the  outcome  of  this  criticism.  The  author's 
acknowledgment  is  dated  the  16th  September  1899 : 

My  dear  Mr.  Yeats, 

I  am  at  present  like  one  of  those  equinoctial  leaves 
which  are  whirling  before  me  as  I  write,  now  this  way 
and  now  that :  for  I  am,  just  now,  addressless,  and  drift 
between  East  and  West,  with  round-the-compass  eddies, 
including  a  flying  visit  of  a  day  or  two  in  a  yacht  from 
Cantyre  to  North  Antrim  coast.  .  .  . 

I  am  interested  in  what  you  write  about  The  Dominion 
of  Dreams  and  shall  examine  with  closest  attention  all 
your  suggestions.  The  book  has  already  been  in  great 
part  revised  by  my  friend.  In  a  few  textual  changes  in 
"  Dalua  "  he  has  in  one  notable  instance  followed  your 
suggestion  about  the  too  literary  "  lamentable  elder 
voices."  The  order  is  slightly  changed  too :  for  "  The 
House  of  Sand  and  Foam "  is  to  be  withdrawn  and 
"  Lost "  is  to  come  after  "  Dalua  "  and  precede  "  The 
Yellow  Moonrock." 

You  will  like  to  know  what  I  most  care  for  myself. 
From  a  standpoint  of  literary  art  per  se  I  think  the  best 
work  is  that  wherein  the  barbaric  (the  old  Gaelic  or  Celto 
Scandinavian)  note  occurs.  My  three  favourite  tales  in 
this  kind  are  "  The  Sad  Queen "  in  The  Dominion  of 
Dreams,  "  The  Laughter  of  Scathach  "  in  The  Washer  of 
the  Ford,  and  "  The  Harping  of  Cravetheen  "  in  The  Sin- 
Eater.  In  art,  I  think  "  Dalua  "  and  "  The  Sad  Queen  " 
and  "  Enya  of  the  Dark  Eyes  "  the  best  of  The  Dominion, 
of  Dreams. 

Temperamentally,  those  which  appeal  to  me  are  those 
with  the  play  of  mysterious  psychic  forces  in  them.  .  .  . 
as  in  "  Alasdair  the  Proud,"  "  Children  of  the  Dark 
Star,"   "  Enya  of  the  Dark  Eyes,"  and  in  the  earlier 


310  WILLIAM    SHARP 

tales  "  Cravetheen,"  "  The  Dan-nan-Ron,"  and  the  lona 
tales. 

Those  others  which  are  full  of  the  individual  note  of 
suffering  and  other  emotion  I  find  it  very  difficult  to 
judge.  Of  one  thing  only  I  am  convinced,  as  is  my  friend 
(an  opinion  shared  by  the  rare  few  whose  judgment  really 
means  much)  that  there  is  nothing  in  The  Dominion  of 
Dreams,  or  elsewhere  in  these  writings  under  my  name  to 
stand  beside  llie  Distant  Country  ...  as  the  deepest 
and  most  searching  utterance  on  the  mystery  of  passion. 
...  It  is  indeed  the  core  of  all  these  writings  .  .  .  and 
will  outlast  them  all. 

Of  course  I  am  speaking  for  myself  only.  As  for  my 
friend,  his  heart  is  in  the  ancient  world  and  his  mind  for 
ever  questing  in  the  domain  of  the  spirit.  I  think  he  cares 
little  for  anything  but  through  the  remembering  imagina- 
tion to  recall  and  intei-pret,  and  through  the  formative 
and  penetrative  imagination  to  discover  certain  mysteries 
of  psychological  and  spiritual  life. 

Apropos — I  wish  very  much  you  would  read,  when  it 
appears  in  the  Fortnightly  Review — probably  either  in 
October  or  November — the  spiritual  *  essay '  called  "  The 
Divine  Adventure  " — an  imaginative  effort  to  reach  the 
same  vital  problems  of  spiritual  life  along  the  separate 
yet  inevitably  interrelated  lines  of  the  Body,  the  Will 
(Mind  or  Intellect)  and  the  soul.  .  .  . 

I  have  no  time  to  write  about  the  plays.  Two  are 
typed :  the  third,  the  chief,  is  not  yet  finished.  When  all 
are  revised  and  ready,  you  can  see  them.  "  The  Immor- 
tal Hour"  (the  shortest,  practically  a  one  act  play  in 
time)  is  in  verse.  Sincerely  yours, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

These  two  plays  were  finally  entitled  "  The  Immortal 
Hour  "  and  "  The  House  of  Usna."  The  third,  "  The  En- 
chanted Valleys,"  remains  a  fragment. 

At  midsummer  we  gave  up  our  flat  in  South  Hamp- 
stead  and  stored  our  furniture  indefinitely.  It  was  de- 
creed that  we  were  to  live  no  more  in  London;  so  we 


THE   DOMINION   OF   DREAMS  311 

decided  to  make  the  experiment  of  wintering  at  Chorley- 
wood,  Bucks.  Meanwhile,  we  went  to  our  dear  West 
Highlands,  to  Loch  Goil,  to  Corrie  on  Arran,  and  to  lona. 
And  in  August  we  crossed  over  to  Belfast  and  stayed  for 
a  short  time  at  Ballycastle,  the  north  easterly  point  of 
Ireland,  to  Newcastle,  and  then  to  Dublin. 

From  Ballycastle  my  husband  wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier: 

6th   Aug.,   1899. 

.  .  .  We  are  glad  to  get  away  from  Belfast,  tho'  very 
glad  to  be  there,  in  a  nice  hotel,  after  our  fatigues  and 
10  hours'  exposure  in  the  damp  sea-fog.  It  was  a  lovely 
day  in  Belfast,  and  Elizabeth  had  her  first  experience 
of  an  Irish  car. 

We  are  on  the  shore  of  a  beautiful  bay — with  the  great 
ram-shaped  headland  of  Fair  Head  on  the  right,  the  At- 
lantic in  front,  and  also  in  front  but  leftward  the  remote 
Gaelic  island  of  Rathlin.  It  is  the  neighbourhood  whence 
Deirdre  and  Naois  fled  from  Concobar,  and  it  is  from  a 
haven  in  this  coast  that  they  sailed  for  Scotland.  It  is 
an  enchanted  land  for  those  who  dream  the  old  dreams : 
though  perhaps  without  magic  or  even  appeal  for  those 
who  do  not " 

October  found  us  at  Chorleywood,  in  rooms  overlooking 
the  high  common.  Thence  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray  Gil- 
christ : 

My  dear  Robert, 

It  is  a  disappointment  to  us  both  that  you  are  not  com- 
ing south  immediately.  Yes ;  the  war-news  saddens  one, 
and  in  many  ways.  Yet,  the  war  was  inevitable :  of  that 
I  am  convinced,  apart  from  political  engineering  or  finan- 
cial interests.  There  are  strifes  as  recurrent  and  inevi- 
table as  tidal  waves.  Today  I  am  acutely  saddened  by 
the  loss  of  a  very  dear  friend.  Grant  Allen.  I  loved  the 
man — and  admired  the  brilliant  writer  and  catholic  critic 
and  eager  student.  He  was  of  a  most  winsome  nature. 
The  world  seems  shrunken  a  bit  more.    As  yet,  I  cannot 


312  WILLIAM   SHARP 

realise  I  am  not  to  see  him  again.  Our  hearts  ache 
for  his  wife — an  ideal  loveable  woman — a  dear  friend  of 
US  both. 

We  are  both  very  busy.  Elizabeth  has  now  the  art- 
work to  do  for  a  London  paper  as  well  as  for  The  Glas- 
goiv  Herald.  For  myself,  in  addition  to  a  great  compli- 
cation of  work  on  hand  I  have  undertaken  (for  financial 
reasons)  to  do  a  big  book  on  the  Fine  Arts  in  the  Nine- 
teenth Century.  I  hope  to  begin  on  it  Monday  next.  It  is 
to  be  about  125,000  words,  (over  400  close-printed  pp.), 
and  if  possible  is  to  be  done  by  December-end!  .  .  . 

You  see  I  am  not  so  idle  as  you  think  me.  It  is  likely 
that  our  friend  Miss  Macleod  will  have  a  new  book  out  in 
January  or  thereabouts — but  not  fiction.  It  is  a  volume 
of  '  Spiritual  Essays '  etc — studies  in  the  spiritual  his- 
tory of  the  Gael. 

We  like  this  most  beautiful  and  bracing  neighbourhood 
greatly :  and  as  we  have  pleasant  artist-friends  near,  and 
are  so  quickly  and  easily  reached  from  London,  we  are  as 
little  isolated  as  at  So.  Hampstead — personally,  I  wish 
we  were  more!  It  has  been  the  loveliest  October  I  re- 
member for  years.  The  equinoxial  bloom  is  on  every  tree. 
But  today,  after  long  drought,  the  weather  has  broken, 
and  a  heavy  rain  has  begun. 

Yours, 
Will. 

.  .The  Progress  of  Art  in  the  Century  was  a  longer  piece 
of  work  than  the  author  anticipated.  It  was  finished  in 
the  summer  of  1900,  and  published  in  The  Nineteenth 
Century  Series  in  1902  by  The  Linscott  Publishing  Co. 
in  America,  and  by  W.  &  R.  Chambers  in  England.  In 
the  early  winter  the  author  wrote  again  to  Mr.  Gilchrist : 

Chokleywood, 
Nov.,  1899. 

My  dear  Robert, 

The  reason  for  another  note  so  soon  is  to  ask  if  you 
cannot  arrange  to  come  here  for  a  few  days  about  Novem- 
ber-end, and  for  this  reason.    You  know  that  the  Omar 


THE   DOMINION    OF   DREAMS  313 

Khayyam  Club  is  the  "  Blue  Ribbon  "  so  to  speak  of  Lit- 
erary Associations,  and  that  its  occasional  meetings  are 
more  sought  after  than  any  other.  As  I  think  you  know, 
I  am  one  of  the  49  members — and  I  much  want  you  to  be 
my  guest  at  the  forthcoming  meeting  on  Friday  Dec.  1st, 
the  first  of  the  new  year. 

The  new  President  is  Sir  George  Robertson  ("  Robert- 
son of  Chitral  ") — and  he  has  asked  me  to  write  (and  re- 
cite) the  poem  which,  annually  or  biennially,  some  one 
is  honoured  by  the  club  request  to  write.  The  moment 
she  heard  of  it,  Elizabeth  declared  that  it  must  be  the 
occasion  of  your  coming  here — so  don't  disappoint  her  as 
well  as  myself !  .  .  . 

Ever  affectly.  yours. 

Will. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE    DIVINE    ADVENTURE 

Celtic 

In  the  early  summer  of  1900  the  volume  entitled  The 
Divine  Adventure:  lona:  By  Sundown  Shores,  with  a 
dedication  to  me,  was  published  by  Messrs.  Chapman  & 
Hall. 

Various  titles  had  been  discarded,  among  others  "  The 
Reddening  of  the  West,"  also  "  The  Sun-Treader "  in- 
tended for  a  story,  projected  but  never  written,  to  form  a 
sequel  to  "  The  Herdsman."  The  titular  essays  had  pre- 
viously appeared  in  various  periodicals ;  the  two  first  in 
The  Fortnightly.  As  the  author  explained  in  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Macleay,  Fiona's  Highland  champion: 

.  .  .  There  is  a  sudden  departure  from  fiction  ancient 
or  modern  in  something  of  mine  that  is  coming  out  in 
the  November  and  December  issues  of  The  Fortnightly 
Revieiv. 

"  The  Divine  Adventure  "  it  is  called — though  this 
spiritual  essay  is  more  '  remote,'  i.  e.  unconventional,  and 
in  a  sense  more  '  mystical,'  than  anything  I  have  done. 
But  it  is  out  of  my  inward  life.  It  is  an  essential  part  of 
a  forthcoming  book  of  spiritual  and  critical  essays  or 
studies  in  the  spiritual  history  of  the  Gael,  to  be  called 
The  Reddening  of  the  West.  .  .  . 

A  book  I  look  forward  to  with  singular  interest  is  Mr. 
Arthur  Symon's  announced  Symbolist  Movement  in  Lit- 
erature. 

This  is  the  longest  letter  I  have  written  for — well,  I 
know  not  when.    But,  then,  you  are  a  good  friend. 
Believe  me,  yours  most  sincerely, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

314 


THE   DIVINE    ADVENTURE  315 

To  Mons.  Anatole  Le  Braz,  the  Breton  romance-writer 
and  folklorist,  F.  M.  had  written  previously: 

Dear  M.  Le  Braz, 

Your  letter  was  a  great  pleasure  to  me.  It  was  the 
more  welcome  as  coming  from  one  who  is  not  only  an 
author  whose  writings  have  a  constant  charm  for  me, 
but  as  from  a  Celtic  comrade  and  spiritual  brother  who 
is  also  the  foremost  living  exponent  of  the  Breton  genius. 
It  may  interest  you  to  know  that  I  am  preparing  an 
etude  on  Contemporary  Breton  (i.  e.  Franco-Breton)  Lit- 
erature; which,  however,  will  be  largely  occupied  with 
consideration  of  your  own  high  achievement  in  prose  and 
verse. 

It  gives  me  sincere  pleasure  to  send  to  you  by  this  post 
a  copy  of  the  *  popular  '  edition  of  Adamnan's  Life  of  St. 
Colum — which  please  me  by  accepting.  You  will  find, 
below  these  primitive  and  often  credulous  legends  of 
lona  a  beauty  of  thought  and  a  certain  poignant  ex- 
quisiteness  of  sentiment  that  cannot  but  appeal  to  you, 
a  Breton  of  the  Bretons.  .  .  . 

It  seems  to  me  that  in  writing  the  spiritual  history  of 
lona  I  am  writing  the  spiritual  history  of  the  Gael,  of  all 
our  Celtic  race.  The  lovely  wonderful  little  island  some- 
times appears  to  me  as  a  wistful  mortal,  in  his  eyes  the 
pathos  of  infinite  desires  and  inalienable  ideals — some- 
times as  a  woman,  beautiful,  wild,  sacred,  inviolate,  clad 
in  rags,  but  aureoled  with  the  Rainbows  of  the  west. 

"  Tell  the  story  of  lona,  and  you  go  back  to  God,  and 
end  in  God."  (The  first  words  of  my  '  spiritual  his- 
tory'). .  .  . 

But  you  will  have  already  wearied  of  so  long  a  letter. 
My  excuse  is  .  .  .  that  you  are  Anatole  Le  Braz,  and  I 
am  your  far-away  but  true  comrade, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

On  the  30th  Dec.  W.  S.  wrote  to  Mr.  Frank  Rinder : 

Just  a  line,  dear  Frank,  both  as  dear  friend  and  lit- 
erary comrade,  to  greet  you  on  New  Year's  morning,  and 


316  WILLIAM   SHARP 

to  wish  you  health  and  prosperity  in  1900.  I  would  like 
you  very  much  to  read  some  of  this  new  Fiona  work,  es- 
pecially the  opening  pages  of  '*  lona,"  for  they  contain  a 
very  deep  and  potent  spiritual  faith  and  hope,  that  has 
been  with  me  ever  since,  as  there  told,  as  a  child  of  seven, 
old  Seumas  Macleod  (who  taught  me  so  much — was  in- 
deed the  father  of  Fiona) — took  me  on  his  knees  one  sun- 
down on  the  island  of  Eigg,  and  made  me  pray  to  "  Her.'^ 
I  have  never  written  anything  mentally  so  spiritually 
autobiographical.  Strange  as  it  may  seem  it  is  almost 
all  literal  reproduction  of  actuality  with  only  some  dates 
and  names  altered. 

But  enough  about  that  troublesome  F.  M. !  .  .  . 


And  to  Mr.  Gilchrist,  "  It  was  written  de  profundis^ 
partly  because  of  a  compelling  spirit,  partly  to  help 
others  passionately  eager  to  obtain  some  light  on  this 
most  complex  and  intimate  spiritual  destiny," 

Some  months  previously  William  had  written  to  an  un- 
known correspondent,  Dr.  John  Goodchild,  poet,  mystie 
and  archeologist : 

The  Outlook  Tower, 

Edinburgh, 

1898. 

My  deae  Sir, 

I  have  to  thank  you  very  cordially  for  your  book  and 
the  long  and  interesting  letter  which  accompanied  it.  It- 
must  be  to  you  also  that  I  am  indebted  for  an  unrevised 
proof-copy  of  The  Light  of  the  West. 

Everything  connected  with  the  study  of  the  Celtic  past. 
has  an  especial  and  deep  interest  for  me,  and  there  are 
few  if  any  periods  more  significant  than  that  of  the  era. 
of  St.  Columba.  His  personality  has  charmed  me,  in 
the  old  and  right  sense  of  the  word  'chami ' :  but  I  have 
come  to  it,  or  it  to  me,  not  through  books  (though  of 
course  largel}^  through  Adamnan)  so  much  as  through  a 
knowledge  gained  partly  by  reading,  partly  by  legend- 
ary lore  and  hearsay,  and  mainly  by  much  brooding  on 
these,  and  on  every  known  saying  and  record  of  Colum,. 
in  lona  itself.    When  I  wrote  certain  of  my  writings  (e.  g. 


THE    DIVINE   ADVENTURE  317 

*' Muime  Chriosd  "  and  "The  Three  Marvels  of  lona") 
I  felt,  rightly  or  wrongly,  as  though  I  had  in  some  meas- 
ure become  interpretative  of  the  spirit  of  "  Colum  the 
White." 

Again,  I  have  long  had  a  conviction — partly  an  emo- 
tion of  the  imagination,  and  partly  a  belief  insensibly  de- 
duced through  a  hundred  avenues  of  knowledge  and  sur- 
mise— that  out  of  lona  is  again  to  come  a  Divine  Word, 
that  lona,  the  little  northern  isle,  will  be  as  it  were  the 
tongue  in  the  mouth  of  the  South. 

Believe  me,  sincerely  yours, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

"  The  House  of  Usna  " — one  of  three  Celtic  plays,  on 
which  F.  M.  had  been  working  for  several  months,  was 
brought  out  under  the  auspices  of  The  Stage  Society,  of 
which  William  Sharp  was  the  first  Chairman,  Mr.  Fred- 
erick Whelen,  the  founder  of  that  Society,  had  met  my 
husband  at  Hindhead  when  we  were  staying  with  his 
uncle  and  aunt,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grant  Allen,  at  their  charm- 
ing house.  The  Croft,  built  among  the  heather  and  the 
pines  on  the  hill-top  just  by  the  edge  of  the  chasm  called 
"  The  Devil's  Punch  Bowl." 

The  older  man  was  keenly  interested  in  the  project,  did 
his  utmost  to  help  towards  its  realisation.  "  The  House 
of  Usna"  was  performed  at  the  Fifth  Meeting  of  the 
Society  at  the  Globe  Theatre  April  29th,  1900,  together 
with  two  short  plays  by  Maeterlinck,  The  Interior  and 
The  Death  of  Tintagiles.  The  music,  composed  espe- 
cially for  the  short  drama  in  three  scenes,  was  by  Mr. 
Y.  M.  Capel,  and  the  play  was  produced  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Mr.  Granville  Barker.  According  to  one  critic: 
"  It  had  beauty  and  it  had  atmosphere,  two  very  rare 
things  on  the  stage,  but  I  did  not  feel  that  it  quite  made 
a  drama,  or  convince,  as  a  drama  should,  by  the  continu- 
ous action  of  inner  or  outer  forces.  It  was,  rather,  pas- 
sion turning  upon  itself,  and  with  no  language  but  a  cry." 

The  author  took  the  greatest  interest  in  the  rehearsals, 
and  in  the  performance.     He  thoroughly  enjoyed  the 


318  WILLIAM    SHARP 

double  play  that  was  going  on,  as  he  moved  about  the 
theatre,  and  chatted  to  his  friends  during  the  intervals, 
with  little  heed  of  the  risks  he  ran  of  detection  of  author- 
ship. The  drama  itself  was  printed  three  months  later 
in  The  National  Revieiv,  and  eventually  published  in  book 
form  in  America  by  Mr.  T.  B.  Mosher,  in  1903. 

In  1900,  too,  the  second  of  these  dramas,  "  The  Im- 
mortal Hour,"  appeared  in  the  November  number  of  The 
Fortnightly  Review.  It  was  published  posthumously  in 
England  (Foulis)  and  in  America  (Mosher).  The 
third  play,  "  The  Enchanted  Valleys,"  was  never  finished. 
It  had  been  the  author's  intention  to  publish  these  dramas 
in  book  form  under  the  third  title,  and  to  dedicate  it  to 
Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney,  who,  as  Editor  of  the  Fortnightly, 
had  been  a  good  friend  to  Fiona  Macleod. 

To  his  unknown  correspondent  the  dramatist  wrote 
again : 

Nov.   15,  1900. 

Dear  Dr.  Goodchild, 

I  am  glad  that  you  have  found  pleasure  in  The  Immor- 
tal Hour.  I  wonder  if  you  interpret  the  myth  of  Midir 
and  Etain  quite  differently,  or  if  you,  too,  find  in  Midir 
the  symbol  of  the  voice  of  the  other  world ;  and  what  you 
think  of  Dalua,  the  Fool,  here  and  elsewhere.  Your 
earnest  letter,  written  in  spiritual  comradeship,  has  been 
read  by  me  again  and  again.  I  do  not  say  that  the  warn- 
ing in  it  is  not  justified,  still  less  that  it  is  not  called  for : 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  do  not  think  I  follow  you  aright. 
Is  it  something  in  The  Immortal  Hour  (or  in  The  Divine 
Adventure  or  more  likely  The  Dominion  of  Dreams)  that 
impelled  you  to  write  as  you  did :  or  something  seemingly 
implied,  or  inferred  by  you  1  .  .  . 

We  seldom  know  how  or  where  we  really  stand,  or  the 
mien  and  aspect  we  unwittingly  bear  to  the  grave  eyes  of 
the  gods.  Is  it  the  lust  of  knowledge,  of  Hidden  Things, 
of  the  Delight  of  the  World,  of  the  magic  of  Mother- 
Earth,  of  the  Flesh — to  one  or  all — that  you  allude.  The 
matter  touches  me  intimately. 

You  have  (I  had  almost  said  mysteriously,  but  why  so. 


THE   DIVINE   ADVENTURE  319 

for  it  would  be  more  mysterious  if  there  were  no  secret 
help  in  spiritual  comradeship)  helped  me  at  more  than 
one  juncture  in  my  life.  .  .  . 

Most  sincerely, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

Dr.  Goodchild  replied : 

BOBDIGHEBA, 

Nov.  29,  1900. 

My  dear  Miss  Macleod, 

I  left  one  or  two  of  your  questions  unanswered  in  my 
last.  I  am  no  Celtic  scholar.  It  was  your  '  Prayer  of  the 
Women '  which  suggested  to  me  first  how  far  you  might 
feel  for  your  sisters,  and  how  far  you  might  journey  to 
find  succour.  .  .  . 

A  woman  who  gazes  into  Columba's  Well  and  sees 
how  the  bubbles  burst  on  its  surface,  needs  all  her  own 
wisdom  lest  she  be  dizzy,  and  a  hand  held  out  from  the 
opposite  side  the  spring  may  help  her  to  gaze  more 
steadily.  Midhir,  I  believe  to  be  the  same  as  the  oriental 
Mitherd,  the  Recipient  of  Light,  and  its  translator  in 
the  Midhc-Myth,  A  voice  from  the  "  Otherworld  "  as  you 
say,  but  the  wearer  of  the  Miter,  speaking  not  from  the 
t/n^erworld,  but  the  Upperwov\d  i.e.  He  is  a  High  Priest 
speaking  in  the  full  light  of  the  Sun. 

Etain  is  difficult,  and  my  own  ideas  by  no  means  formu- 
lated. I  merely  suggest  that  ere  your  Etain  was  bom, 
her  name  typified  the  strong  hope  of  the  singer,  his  im- 
mortality, his  knowledge  that  the  Sun  not  merely  creates 
but  re-creates  in  renewed  beauty. 

If  you  remember  Cairbre,  the  son  of  Etain,  you  may 
also  remember  those  other  Ethainn  who  sung  before  the 
Ark  in  a  far  country.  The  Father  is  put  on  one  side  for 
the  Mother,  by  the  singer,  the  Mother  for  the  Bride. 
Even  Milton,  puritan  though  he  was,  must  invoke  a 
woman  to  the  aid  of  "  adventurous  song  "  and  is  careful 
not  to  change  the  sex  when  in  the  Muse  of  Sinni  and  Silva 
is  seen  the  Spirit  of  the  Creator. 

As  regards  Dalua,  I  know  nothing  of  him  by  name  ex- 
cept what  you  yourself  have  written.    Is  there  any  con- 


320  WILLIAM    SHARP 

nection  between  the  name  and  Dala  (the  Celtic)  which  is 
sometimes  fomid  in  company  with  Brat  and  Death,  in 
your  Celtic  genealogies? 

At  the  same  time  I  have  dimly  guessed  all  my  life  how 
folly  might  be  better  than  the  wisdom  of  wise  men,  and 
remembering  dimly  how  much  wiser  I  was  myself  as  a 
child  than  after  I  had  grown  up,  I  have  incessantly  de- 
sired a  return  to  that  state  of  childish  thought,  and  tried 
to  learn  from  children,  when  I  had  the  chance,  the  secrets 
of  their  folly  which  carried  them  so  near  to  divinity,  if 
they  were  not  hurried  away  from  their  vision  by  those 
about  them. 

J.  A.  G. 

The  Essay  entitled  "Celtic  "  had  originally  appeared  in 
the  Contemporary  Revieiv  a  few  weeks  before  the  pub- 
lication of  the  new  volume,  and  had  aroused  considerable 
comment.  In  Britain  it  was  regarded  as  a  clear  state- 
ment of  the  aims  and  ideas  of  the  so-called  Celtic  Revival 
— (a  term  which  "  F.  M."  greatly  disliked).  It  was 
otherwise  in  Ireland,  and  naturally  so,  considering  the 
different  conditions  on  both  sides  of  the  Irish  channel  out 
of  which  the  movement  had  grown.  On  this  side  political 
considerations  had  not  touched  the  question;  it  was 
mainly  concerned  with  the  preservation  of  the  old  lan- 
guage, with  racial  characteristic  feelings,  and  their  ex- 
pression in  literature.  On  the  other  side  of  the  water,  the 
workers  had  many  more  issues  at  heart  than  in  the  High- 
lands. So  the  Highland  Celt  and  the  Irish  Celts  did  not 
quite  understand  one  another;  an  animated  correspond- 
ence ensued  in  private  and  in  the  press.  The  Irish  press 
was  divided  in  its  opinion  on  '  Celtic,'  because  the  writers 
were  not  of  one  mind  among  themselves  in  their  methods 
of  working  towards  the  one  end  all  Celts  have  at  heart. 
There  were  those,  who  being  ardent  Nationalists  re- 
garded the  Celtic  literary  movement  as  one  with  the  po- 
litical, or  as  greatly  coloured  by  it.  This  factor  gave 
a  special  element  to  the  Irish  phase  of  the  movement 
which  sharply  differentiated  it  from  the  movement  in 


THE    DIVINE    ADVENTURE  321 

Scotland,  Wales  or  Brittany.  Other  workers  were  in- 
terested in  the  movement  as  a  whole,  in  each  of  the  "  six 
Celtic  Nations,"  and  "  The  Celtic  Association "  was 
formed,  with  Lord  Castletown  at  its  head,  with  a  view  of 
keeping  each  of  the  six  branches  of  the  movement  in 
touch  with  each  other:  the  Irish,  Scots,  Welsh,  Manx, 
Breton,  and  Cornish  or  British.  This  Society  desired  to 
make  a  Federation  of  these  working  sections  an  actual- 
ity, and  to  that  end  decided  to  hold  a  Pan  Celtic  Con- 
gress every  three  years.  The  first  of  these  was  held  in 
Dublin,  and  to  it  my  husband  subscribed  as  W.  S.  and 
as  F.  M.,  though,  as  an  obvious  precaution  against  de- 
tection, he  did  not  attend  it. 

Opinion  in  Ireland  was  divided  as  to  the  value  of  such 
a  Federation;  certain  of  the  enthusiasts  believed  that 
working  for  it  drew  strength  and  work  away  from  the 
central  needs  in  Ireland.  Another  point  of  dispute  was 
the  question  of  language;  as  to  what  did  or  would  con- 
stitute an  Irish  Literature — works  written  in  the  Erse 
only;  or  all  work,  either  in  the  Erse  or  the  English  tongue 
that  gave  expression  to  and  made  vital  the  Celtic  spirit 
and  aspirations.  F.  M.  deplored  the  uniting  of  the  po- 
litical element  to  the  movement — and  naturally  had  no 
inclination  towards  any  such  feeling. 

William  Sharp's  great  desire  was  that  the  Celtic  spirit 
should  be  kept  alive,  and  be  a  moulding  influence  towards 
the  expression  of  the  racial  approach  to  and  yearning 
after  spiritual  beauty,  whether  expressed  in  Gaelic  or  in 
the  English  tongue.  He  knew  that  there  is  a  tendency, 
with  the  young  of  those  people  in  Scotland  at  least,  to  put 
aside  the  beautiful  old  thoughts,  or  at  all  events  their 
outward  expression,  with  the  disuse  of  the  older  language 
which  had  clothed  those  thoughts;  he  feared  that  to  put 
silence  upon  them  would  be  to  lose  them  after  a  genera- 
tion or  two.  Therefore  it  was  his  great  hope  that  the 
genius  of  the  race  would  prove  strong  enough  to  express 
itself  in  either  language;  and  he  realised  that  its  influ- 
ence would  be  more  potent  and  widespread  if  also  it 
found  expression  in  the  English  language.    Thus  a  mis- 


322  WILLIAM    SHARP 

understanding  arose;  one  of  approach  to  the  subject 
rather  than  in  essentials. 

The  Irish  Press  was  divided  in  opinion  concerning 
"  Celtic,"  especially  The  Irish  Independent,  Freeman's 
Journal  and  All  Ireland  Review.  In  the  latter  a  corre- 
spondence began.  One  writer  welcomed  the  Essay  as 
coming  from  one  "  possessed,  as  no  other  writer  of 
our  time  is  possessed,  with  a  sense  of  the  faculty  and 
mission  of  the  Celt,  and  shows  not  only  deep  intuition 
but  the  power  to  see  life  steadily  and  to  see  it  as  a 
whole." 

"  A.  E."  however,  was  of  another  opinion.  He  consid- 
ered the  essay  to  be  out  of  place  "  in  a  book  otherwise  in- 
spired by  the  artist's  desire  to  shape  in  a  beautiful  way  " ; 
to  be  semi-political  and  inaccurate  as  an  expression  of 
the  passionate  aimes  of  the  Irish  Celt;  and  he  took  ex- 
ception to  the  expression  of  belief  '  there  is  no  racial  road 
to  beauty.' 

F.  M.  replied  and  endeavoured  to  make  more  clear  her 
position;  but  without  success,  as  a  subsequent  letter 
from  the  Irish  poet  proved.  Another  writer  showed  that 
there  was  obviously  a  confusion  of  two  ideas  between  the 
disputants — and  Mr.  T.  W.  Rolleston  closed  the  discus- 
sion with  a  letter  in  which  he  quietly  pointed  out  the 
misapprehensions  on  both  sides  and  concluded  with  the 
generous  admission :  "  Fiona  Macleod  is  most  emphati- 
cally a  helper,  not  a  hinderer  in  this  work,  and  one  of 
the  most  potent  we  have.  For  my  own  part  I  think  her 
essay  '  Celtic '  indicates  the  lines  on  which  we  may  most 
successfully  work."  William  Sharp  realised  that  since 
his  essay  had  given  rise  to  misapprehension  of  his  aims 
and  ideas,  it  would  be  well  to  further  elucidate  them; 
that  moreover,  as  "  F.  M."  wrote  to  Mr.  Russell,  "  a  truer 
understanding  has  come  to  me  in  one  or  two  points  where 
we  have  been  at  issue."  He,  therefore,  revised  and  en- 
larged his  essay,  and,  with  an  added  Foreword  of  expla- 
nation, had  it  published  separately  in  America  by  Mr. 
T.  B.  Mosher ;  and,  finally,  he  included  it  in  The  Winged 
Destiny. 


THE   DIVINE    ADVENTURE  323 

In  the  early  autumn  the  following  letter  came  to  my 
husband  from  overseas: 

Broxxvili-e,  N.  Y., 

Sept.  26,   1900. 

My  dearest  Guilielmo, 

In  this  last  year  of  my  Century,  among  my  little  and 
exceptional  attempts  to  celebrate  my  coming  birthday — I 
wish  that  you  the  most  leal  and  loved  of  our  English 
friends,  may  receive  for  once  a  word  from  me  before  its 
sun  goes  down.  Probably  you  are  in  some  Lodge  of  the 
lake  of  your  Northern  Night,  or  off  for  the  Mountains  of 
the  Moon.  Still,  even  your  restless  and  untamed  spirit 
must  by  this  time  have  been  satisfied  of  wandering;  at 
any  rate,  I  doubt  not  this  will  in  the  end  find  you  some- 
where, and  then  you  will  know  that  my  heart  began  to 
go  out  to  you  as  I  neared  another  milestone.  .  .  it  has 
suffered  enough  and  lost  enough  to  make  it  yearn  fondly 
for  the  frank  face  and  dear  words  of  a  kindred,  though 
fresher  heart  like  yours.  I  have  a  few  devoted  sons,  and 
you  are  one  of  them.  .  .  . 

My    remembrances    to    Mrs.    Sharp    and    to    Fiona 

McL whether  she  be  real  or  hypothetical.    If  I  could 

have  spared  the  means,  and  had  had  the  strength,  I 
would  have  completed  my  recovery  by  a  voyage  to  you 
and  England  last  summer.  .  .  . 

Ever  devotedly  yours, 

E.  C.  Stedman. 

The  "restless  spirit "  was  by  no  means  tired  of  wander- 
ing. Partly  owing  to  the  insistence  of  circumstance, 
partly  from  choice,  we  began  that  autumn  a  series  of 
wanderings  that  brought  us  back  to  London  and  to  Scot- 
land for  a  few  weeks  only  each  summer.  The  climate  of 
England  proved  too  severe;  my  husband  had  been  seri- 
ously ill  in  the  New  Year.  Despite  his  appearance  of 
great  vitality,  his  extraordinary  power  of  recuperation 
after  every  illness — which  in  a  measure  was  due  to  his 
buoyant  nature,  to  his  deliberate  turning  of  his  mind 
away  from  suffering  or  from  failure  and  "  looking  sun- 
wise," to  his  endeavour  to  get  the  best  out  of  whatever 


324  WILLIAM   SHAKP 

conditions  he  had  to  meet — we  realised  that  a  home  in 
England  was  no  longer  a  possibility,  that  it  would  be 
wise  to  make  various  experiments  abroad  rather  than 
attempt  to  settle  anywhere  permanently.  Indeed,  we 
were  both  glad  to  have  no  plans,  but  to  wander  again  how 
and  where  inclination  and  possibilities  dictated.  Early 
in  October  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Murray  Gilchrist  from  Lon- 
don: 

My  dear  Robeet, 

A  little  ago,  on  sitting  down  in  my  club  to  answer  some 
urgent  notes  (and  whence  I  now  write)  my  heart  leapt 
with  pleasure,  and  an  undeserving  stranger  received  Part 
I  of  a  beaming  welcome — for  the  waiter  announced  that 
"  Mr.  Gilchrist  would  like  to  see  you.  Sir,"  Alas,  it  was 
no  dear  Peaklander,  but  only  a  confounded  interviewer 
about  the  Stage  Society !  .  .  . 

Elizabeth  and  I  leave  England  on  the  morning  of  the 
12th — and  go  first  to  the  South  of  Provence,  near  Mar- 
seilles :  after  Yule-tide  we'll  go  on  to  Italy,  perhaps  first 
to  Shelley's  Spezzia  or  to  Pegli  of  the  Orange  Groves 
near  Genoa :  and  there  we  await  you,  or  at  furthest  a  little 
later,  say  in  Florence.  We  shall  be  away  till  the  end  of 
March. 

Meanwhile  'tis  all  unpleasantness  and  incertitude: 
much  to  do  and  little  pleasure  in  the  doing :  a  restlessness 
too  great  to  be  salved  short  of  departure,  and  the  longed 
for  mental  and  nervous  rest  far  away. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  flying  visit  to  Dorset,  and 
saw  Thomas  Hardy.  He  is  well,  and  at  work:  the  two 
happiest  boons  of  fortune  for  all  our  kinship — and  there- 
in I  hope  you  are  at  one  with  him.  I  wish  you  could  run 
up  and  see  our  first  Stage  Society  production  this  week- 
end (Sunday)  when  we  bring  out  a  short  play  by  Hardy 
and  R.  L.  Stevenson  and  Henley's  '  Macaire.'  (I  resigned 
my  Chairmanship  but  was  re-elected:  and  so  am  extra 
busy  before  I  go.) 

Your  loving  friend, 

Will. 


THE    DIVINE    ADVENTURE  325 

P.  S.  Miss  Macleod's  drama  'The  Immortal  Hour '  is 
in  the  November  Fortnightly,  also  her  article  "  The  Gael 
and  His  Heritage  "  in  the  November  Nineteenth  Century. 

And  in  addition  to  these  a  study  on  the  Dramas  of 
Gabriele  d'Annunzio  appeared  in  The  Fortnightly,  in 
September,  signed  "  W.  S." 

To  Mr.  Macleay  he  sent  an  account  of  the  work  he  had 
on  hand: 

Aix-en-Provence, 
30th  Nov.,  1900. 

Dear  Mr.  Macleay, 

Your  friendly  note  has  reached  me  here,  where  I  have 
been  some  time,  this  being  my  best  centre  in  Provence  at 
this  season  for  my  special  studies  in  Provencal  literature 
and  history.  My  wife  and  I  expect  to  remain  here  till 
about  Christmas  time,  and  then  to  go  on  to  Italy. 

Pressure  of  urgent  work — chiefly  a  lengthy  volume  on 
the  Evolution  of  the  Fine  Arts  in  the  Nineteenth  Century, 
primarily  for  transatlantic  publication — prevented  my 
being  much  in  Scotland  this  autumn.  I  was  a  brief  while 
in  Galloway  visiting  friends,  and  for  a  week  or  so  at  Port- 
patrick,  and  a  few  days  in  Edinburgh — c'est  tout. 

At  one  time  there  was  a  chance  that  I  might  be  near 
Taynuilt,  and  I  looked  forward  greatly  to  see  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Carmichael  again.  He  is  a  splendid  type  of  the 
true  Highlander,  and  of  a  nature  incomparably  sweet  and 
refined — and  I  have  the  greatest  admiration  of  him  in  all 
ways.  .  .  . 

A  remarkable  family,  and  I  would  to  Heaven  there 
were  more  such  families  in  the  Highlands  now.  Yes, 
ivhat  a  book  Carmina  Gadelica  is !  It  ought  to  become  as 
precious  to  the  Scottish  Gael  as  the  Greek  Anthology  to 
all  who  love  the  Hellenic  ideal,  but  with  a  more  poignant, 
a  more  personal  appeal.  ...  I  can't  tell  you  about  Miss 
Macleod's  historical  romance  for  the  good  reason  that 
I  don't  know  anything  about  its  present  prospects  myself. 
Personally  I  regret  the  long  postponement,  as  I  think 
(judging  from  what  I  have  seen)  that  it  would  be  a  sue- 


326  WILLIAM    SHARP 

cess  as  a  romance  of  history.  Miss  MacLeod,  however, 
l)ecame  dissatisfied  with  what  she  had  done,  or  its  atmos- 
phere, or  both,  and  has  not  touched  it  again  for  some 
months  past — though  the  last  time  she  spoke  of  the  sub- 
ject she  said  she  hoped  it  would  be  ready  by  midsum- 
mer. ...  I  am  myself  heavily  engaged  in  work,  includ- 
ing many  commissions.  I've  finished  an  essay  on  "  Im- 
pressionism "  ("The  Impressionist"  I  call  it)  for  the 
forthcoming  new  monthly,  The  North  Liberal  Review, 
and  am  now  in  the  throes  of  a  long  Quarterly  article. 
Then  I  have  a  Provencal  book  on  hand,  and  (interlusive) 
a  Provencal  romance. 

You  will,  of  course,  keep  all  I  have  said  of  myself  and 
doings,  and  still  more  importantly  of  Miss  Macleod,  to 
yourself.  I  don't  think  she  wants  anyone  save  friends 
and  acquaintances  to  know  that  she  is  abroad,  and  for 
her  health.  And  above  all  needing  rest  as  she  is,  she 
dreads  the  slightest  addition  to  a  correspondence  already 
beyond  her  capacities. 

Before  I  left  London  I  read  with  deep  interest  the 
opening  instalments  of  Neil  Munro's  new  book  Doom 
Castle.    It  promises  I  think,  to  be  his  chef-d'oeuvre. 

Write  to  me  again  soon,  with  news  of  your  doings  and 
prospects. 

Yours  sincerely, 

William  Sharp. 

The  Provencal  romance  that  he  was  mentally  project- 
ing— the  never  written  Gypsy  Trail — was  in  part  to  have 
dealt  with  his  early  gipsy  experiences.  One  among  other 
things  which  revived  this  strain  of  memory  was  our  near 
vicinage  to  Les  Sainte-Maries,  in  Provence,  where  the 
bones  of  Sarah,  the  gipsy  servant  of  "  les  Maries/'  are 
enshrined ;  also  he  had  recently  read  the  vivid  description 
of  the  gathering  of  the  gipsy  tribes  at  that  Shrine  on  her 
Feast  day,  written  by  the  Provencal  novelist  Jean  Aicard, 
in  his  Le  Roi  des  Camargues. 

During  my  husband's  first  visit  to  Provence  he  had 
been  much  interested  in  meeting  certain  members  of  Les 


THE   DIVINE    ADVENTURE  327 

Felibres,  the  Provencal  literary  and  linguistic  National- 
ists. He  visited  Frederick  Mistral  in  his  charming  coun- 
try home  and  noticed  the  similarity  of  physical  type 
shared  by  the  Provencal  and  himself.  I,  also,  was  struck 
by  the  likeness  between  the  two  men  and  thought  that 
Mistral  might  easily  have  passed  for  elder  brother  of 
his  Scots  confrere.  At  Avignon  we  saw  Madame  Rou- 
manille,  the  sister  of  Felix  Gras,  and  widow  of  one  of  the 
founders  of  Les  Felibres,  and  her  poet-daughter,  Terese, 
who  inherited  her  father's  gift.  At  Aix  we  met  Mistral's 
god-daughter  Madame  Marie  Gasquet,  daughter  of  the 
poet  M.  Gerard,  another  of  the  original  group  of  workers 
in  the  old  Langue  d'CEuil.  Madame  Gasquet  was  the 
wife  of  the  young  poet,  Joachim  Gasquet,  between  whom 
and  my  husband  there  grew  up  a  warm  friendship. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

PROVENCE 

Maniace 

New  Year's  Day  found  us  at  Palermo  where  my  hus- 
band was  enchanted  at  being  presented  with  a  little  pottle 
of  freshly  gathered  wild  strawberries;  a  week  later  we 
traversed  the  island  to  Taormina,  whence  he  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Janvier: 

Monte  Venere,  Taoemina, 

25th  Jan.,   1901. 

.  .  .  Today  it  was  too  warm  to  work  contentedly  in- 
doors even  upon  our  little  terrace  with  its  superb  views 
over  Etna  and  the  Ionian  Sea — so  at  9  a.m.  Elizabeth  and 
I,  with  a  young  painter-friend  came  up  here  to  a  divine 
spot  on  the  slopes  of  the  steep  and  grand-shouldered  Hill 
of  Venus,  bringing  with  us  our  writing  and  sketching 
materials  and  also  fruit  and  wine  and  light  luncheon.  It 
is  now  about  3  p.m.  and  we  have  lain  here  for  hours  in 
the  glorious  warmth  and  cloudless  sunglow — undisturbed 
by  any  sounds  save  the  soft  sighing  of  the  sea  far  below, 
the  fluttering  of  a  young  goatherd  with  his  black  flock  on 
a  steep  across  a  near  ravine,  and  the  occasional  passing 
of  a  muleteer  or  of  a  mountaineer  with  his  wine-panior'd 
donkeys.  A  vast  sweep  of  sea  is  before  us  and  beneath. 
To  the  left,  under  the  almond  boughs,  are  the  broad 
straits  which  divide  Sicily  from  Calabria — in  front,  the 
limitless  reach  of  the  Greek  sea — to  the  right,  below,  the 
craggy  heights  and  Monte  Acropoli  of  Taormina — and, 
beyond,  the  vast  slope  of  snow-clad  Etna.  .  .  . 

I  have  just  been  reading  (for  the  hundredth  time)  in 
Theocritus.  How  doubly  lovely  he  is,  read  on  the  spot. 
That  young  shepherd  fluting  away  to  his  goats  at  this 
moment  might  be  Daphnis  himself.     Three  books  are 

328 


PROVENCE  329 

never  fir  from  here:  Theocritus,  the  Greek  Anthology, 
and  the  Homeric  Hymns.  I  loved  them  before :  now  they 
are  in  mv  blood. 

Legend  has  it  that  near  this  very  spot  Pythagoras  used 
to  come  and  dream.  How  strange  to  think  that  one  can 
thus  come  in  touch  with  two  of  the  greatest  men  of  an- 
tiquity— for  within  reach  from  here  (a  pilgrimage  to  be 
made  from  Syracuse)  is  the  grave  of  ^schylus.  Per- 
haps it  was  here  that  Pythagoras  learned  the  secret  of 
that  music  (for  here  both  the  sea-wind  and  the  hill-wind 
can  be  heard  in  magic  meeting)  by  which  one  day — as  told 
in  lamblicus — he  cured  a  young  man  of  Taormina  (Tau- 
romenion)  who  had  become  mad  as  a  wild  beast,  with 
love.  Pythagoras,  it  is  said,  played  an  antique  air  upon 
his  flute,  and  the  madness  went  from  the  youth.  .  .  . 

I  shall  never  forget  the  journey  across  Sicily.  I  for- 
get if  I  told  3^ou  in  my  letter  that  it  had  been  one  of  my 
dreams  since  youth  to  read  the  Homeric  Hymns  and 
Theocritus  in  Sicily — and  it  has  been  fulfilled:  even  to 
the  unlikeliest,  which  was  to  read  the  great  HjTun  to 
Demeter  at  Enna  itself.  And  that  I  did — in  that  wild  and 
remote  mountain-land.  Enna  is  now  called  Castrogio- 
vanni — but  all  else  is  unchanged — though  the  great  tem- 
ples to  Demeter  and  Persephone  are  laid  low.  It  was  a 
wonderful  mental  experience  to  read  that  Hymn  on  the 
very  spot  where  Demeter  went  seeking — torch  in  hand, 
and  wind-blown  blue  peplos  about  her — her  ravished 
daughter,  the  beautiful  Pherephata  or  Persephone. 
However,  I  have  already  told  you  all  about  that — and  the 
strange  coincidence  of  the  two  white  doves,  (which  Eliza- 
beth witnessed  at  the  moment  I  exclaimed)  and  about 
our  wonderful  sunset-arrival  in  Greek  Tauromenion.  .  .  . 

To  the  same  friend  he  described  our  visit  to  Syracuse : 

Casa  Politi, 
Strada  Dioxysio, 

7th  Feb..: 01. 

...  I  must  send  you  at  least  a  brief  line  from  Syra- 
cuse— that  marvellous  '  Glory  of  Hellas '  where  ancient 
Athens  fell  in  ruin,  alas,  when  Nicias  lost  here  the  whole 


330  WILLIAM    SHARP 

army  and  navy  and  Demosthenes  surrendered  by  the 
banks  of  the  Anapus — the  Syracuse  of  Theocritus  you 
love  so  well — the  Syracuse  where  Pindar  heard  some  of 
his  noblest  odes  sung,  where  Plato  discoursed  with  his 
disciples  of  New  Hellas,  where  (long  before)  the  Argo- 
nauts had  passed  after  hearing  the  Sirens  singing  by  this 
fatal  shore,  and  near  where  Ulysses  derided  Polyphemus 
— and  where  ^schylus  lived  so  long  and  died. 

It  seems  almost  incredible  when  one  is  in  the  beauti- 
ful little  Greek  Theatre  up  on  the  rising  ground  behind 
modern  Syracuse  to  believe  that  so  many  of  the  greatest 
plays  of  the  greatest  Greek  tragedians  (many  unknown 
to  us  even  by  name)  were  given  here  under  the  direction 
of  ^schjdus  himself.  And  now  I  must  tell  you  of  a  piece 
of  extraordinary  good  fortune.  Yesterday  turned  out 
the  superbest  of  this  year — a  real  late  Spring  day,  with 
the  fields  full  of  purple  irises  and  asphodels  and  innum- 
erable flowers,  and  the  swallows  swooping  beneath  the 
multitudes  of  flowering  almonds.  We  spent  an  unfor- 
gettable day — first  going  to  the  Castle  of  ancient  Eurya- 
los — perhaps  the  most  wonderful  I  have  ever  known. 
Then,  in  the  evening,  I  heard  that  today  a  special  choral 
performance  was  to  be  given  in  the  beautiful  hillside 
Greek  Theatre  in  honour  of  the  visit  of  Prince  Tommaso 
(Duke  of  Genoa,  the  late  King's  brother,  and  Admiral  of 
the  Fleet).  Imagine  our  delight!  And  luhat  a  day  it  has 
been — the  ancient  ^schylean  theatre  crammed  once 
more  on  all  its  tiers  with  thousands  of  Syracusans,  so 
that  not  a  spare  seat  was  left — while  three  hundred  young 
voices  sang  a  version  of  one  of  the  choral  sections  of 
"  The  Suppliants  "  of  ^Eschylus — with  it  il  Principe  on 
a  scarlet  dais  where  once  the  tyrant  Dionysius  sat !  Over 
head  the  deep  blue  sky,  and  beyond,  the  deep  blue  Ionian 
sea.     It  was  all  too  wonderful.  .  .  . 

While  we  were  at  Taormina  the  news  came  of  the  death 
of  Queen  Victoria.  An  impressive  memorial  service  was 
arranged  by  Mr.  Albert  Stopford,  an  English  resident 
there,  and  held  in  the  English  Chapel  of  Sta.  Caterina. 


PROVENCE  331 

To  attend  it  the  Hon.  Alexander  Nelson  Hood  came 
from  the  "  Nelson  property "  of  Bronte  where  he  was 
wintering  with  his  father,  Viscount  Bridport,  Duke  of 
Bronte,  who  for  forty  years  had  been  personal  Lord  in 
Waiting  to  the  Queen.  To  the  son  we  were  introduced 
by  Mr.  Stopford;  and  a  day  or  two  later  we  started  on 
our  first  visit  to  that  strange  beautiful  Duchy  on  ^tna, 
that  was  to  mean  so  much  to  us. 

Greatly  we  enjoyed  the  experience — the  journey  in  the 
little  Circum-^tnean  train  along  the  great  shoulder  of 
Etna,  with  its  picturesque  little  towns  and  its  great 
stretches  of  devastating  lava ;  the  first  sight  of  the  Castle 
of  Maniace — in  its  shallow  tree-clad  valley  of  the  Si- 
meto  flanked  by  great  solemn  hills — as  we  turned  down 
the  winding  hill-road  from  the  great  lava  plateau  where 
the  station  of  Maletto  stands;  the  time-worn  quadrangu- 
lar convent-castle  with  its  Norman  chapel,  and  its  great 
lona  cross  carved  in  lava  erected  in  the  court-yard  to  the 
memory  of  Nelson ;  the  many  interesting  relics  of  Nelson 
within  the  castle,  such  as  his  Will  signed  Nelson  and 
Bronte  on  each  page,  medals,  many  fine  line  engravings 
of  the  battles  in  which  he,  and  also  Admiral  Hood,  took 
part ;  the  beautiful  Italian  garden,  and  wild  glen  gardens 
beyond.  No  less  charming  was  the  kindly  welcome  given 
to  us  by  the  fine,  hale  old  Courtier  who — when  his  son  one 
afternoon  had  taken  my  husband  for  a  drive  to  see  the 
hill-town  of  Bronte,  and  the  magnificent  views  of  and 
from  ^-Etna,  with  its  crowning  cover  of  snow — told  me,  as 
we  sat  in  the  comfortable  central  hall  before  a  blazing  log 
fire,  many  reminiscences  of  the  beloved  Queen  he  had 
served  so  long. 

In  the  spring  we  returned  to  England,  through  Italy; 
and  from  Florence,  where  we  took  rooms  for  a  month, 
F.  M.  wrote  to  an  unknown  correspondent: 

18th   March,   1001. 

My  dear  unknown  friend, 

You  must  forgive  a  tardy  reply  to  your  welcome  let- 
ter, but  I  have  been  ill,  and  am  not  yet  strong.    Your 


332  WILLIAM    SHARP 

writing  to  me  has  made  me  happy.  One  gets  many 
letters :  some  leave  one  indifferent ;  some  interest ;  a  few 
are  like  dear  and  familiar  voices  speaking  in  a  new  way, 
or  as  from  an  obscure  shore.  Yours  is  of  the  last.  I 
am  glad  to  know  that  something  in  what  I  have  written 
has  coloured  anew  your  own  thought,  or  deepened  the 
subtle  music  that  you  yourself  hear — for  no  one  finds  the 
colour  of  life  and  the  music  of  the  spirit  unless  he  or 
she  already  perceive  the  one  and  love  the  other.  Some- 
where in  one  of  my  books — I  think  in  the  latest,  The  Di- 
vine Adventure,  but  at  the  moment  cannot  remember — I 
say  that  I  no  longer  ask  of  a  book,  is  it  clever,  or  striking, 
or  is  it  well  done,  or  even  is  it  beautiful,  but — out  of  how 
deep  a  life  does  it  come.  That  is  the  most  searching  test. 
And  that  is  why  I  am  grateful  when  one  like  your- 
self writes  to  tell  me  that  intimate  thought  and  emo- 
tion deeply  felt  have  reached  some  other  and  kindred 
spirit.  .  .  . 

I  am  writing  to  you  from  Florence.  You  know  it,  per- 
haps! The  pale  green  Arno,  the  cream-white,  irregular, 
green-blinded,  time-stained  houses  opposite,  the  tall  cy- 
presses of  the  Palatine  garden  beyond,  the  dove-grey 
sky,  all  seem  to  breathe  one  sigh  .  .  .  La  Pace!    L'Oblio! 

But  then — life  has  made  those  words  "  Peace,"  "  For- 
getfulness,"  very  sweet  for  me.  Perhaps  for  you  this 
vague  breath  of  another  Florence  than  that  which  Bae- 
deker described  might  have  some  more  joyous  interpre- 
tation.   I  hope  so.  .  .  . 

You  are  right  in  what  you  say,  about  the  gulf  between 
kindred  natures  being  less  wide  than  it  seems.  But  do 
not  speak  of  the  spiritual  life  as  "  another  life  " :  there 
is  no  *  other '  life :  what  we  mean  by  that  is  with  us  now. 
The  great  misconception  of  Death  is  that  it  is  the  only 
door  to  another  world. 

Your  friend, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

The  October  number  of  The  Fortnightly  Review  con- 
tained a  series  of  poems  by  F.  M.  entitled  "  The  Ivory 


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PROVENCE  333 

Gate,"  and  at  the  same  time  an  American  edition  of  From 
the  Hills  of  Dream — altered  from  the  original  issue — 
was  published  by  Mr.  T.  Mosher,  to  whom  the  poet  wrote 
concerning  the  last  section  of  the  English  Edition: 

Dear  Mr.  Mosher,  12th  Nov.,  1901. 

What  a  lovely  ])ook  Mimes  is !  It  is  a  pleasure  to  look 
at  it,  to  handle  it.  The  simple  beauty  of  the  cover-design 
charms  me.  And  the  contents  .  .  .  yes,  these  are  beau- 
tiful, too. 

I  think  the  translation  has  been  finely  made,  but  there 
are  a  few  slips  in  interpretative  translation,  and  (as 
perhaps  is  inevitable)  a  lapse  ever  and  again  from  the 
subtle  harmony,  the  peculiar  musical  undulant  rhythm  of 
the  original.  In  a  creative  translation,  the  faintest  jar 
can  destroy  the  illusion :  and  more  than  once  I  was  rudely 
reminded  that  a  foreigner  mixt  this  far-carried  honey 
and  myrrh.  Yet  this  is  only  "  a  counsel  of  perfection," 
by  one  who  perhaps  dwells  overmuch  upon  the  ideal  of 
a  flawless  raiment  for  beautiful  thought  or  dream.  Nor 
would  I  seem  ungracious  to  a  translator  who  has  so 
finely  achieved  a  task  almost  as  difficult  as  that  set  to 
Liban  by  Oisin  in  the  Land  of  the  Ever-Living,  when  he 
bade  her  take  a  wave  from  the  shore  and  a  green  blade 
from  the  grass  and  a  leaf  from  a  tree  and  the  breath  of 
the  wind  and  a  man's  sigh  and  a  woman's  thought,  and 
out  of  them  all  make  an  air  that  would  be  like  the  single 
song  of  a  bird.  Do  you  wish  to  tempt  me?  Tempt  me 
then  with  a  proposal  as  to  "  The  Silence  of  Amor,"  to  be 
brought  out  as  Mimes  is ! 

The  short  prose-poems  would  have  to  be  materially 
added  to,  of  course:  and  the  additions  would  for  the 
most  part  individually  be  longer  than  the  short  pieces  you 
know.  .  .  . 

Sincerely  yours, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

In  sending  a  copy  of  the  American  edition  of  From  the 
Hills  of  Dream  to  Mr.  Yeats,  the  author  explained  that, 
though  it  contained  new  material, 


334  WILLIAM    SHARP 

.  .  .  there  will  be  much  in  it  familiar  to  you.  But  even 
here  there  are  changes  which  are  recreative — as,  for  ex- 
ample, in  the  instance  of  "  The  Moon-Child,"  where  one 
or  two  touches  and  an  added  quatrain  have  made  a  poem 
of  what  was  merely  poetic. 

The  first  10  poems  are  those  which  are  in  the  current 
October  Fortnightly  Review.  But  when  these  are  re- 
printed in  a  forthcoming  volume  of  new  verse  ...  it  will 
also  contain  some  of  the  40  *  new  '  poems  now  included  in 
this  American  edition,  and  the  chief  contents  will  be  the 
re-modelled  and  re-written  poetic  drama  The  Immortal 
Hour,  and  with  it  many  of  the  notes  to  which  I  alluded 
when  I  wrote  last  to  you.  In  the  present  little  volume  it 
was  not  found  possible  to  include  the  lengthy,  intimate, 
and  somewhat  esoteric  notes:  among  which  I  account  of 
most  interest  for  you  those  pertinent  to  the  occult  myths 
embodied  in  The  Immortal  Hour. 

You  will  see,  however,  that  one  or  two  dedicatory  pages 
— intended  for  the  later  English  new  book — have  here 
found  a  sectional  place :  and  will,  I  hope,  please  you. 

Believe  me, 
Your  friend  truly, 

F.  M. 

Mr.  Yeats  replied : 

18  WoBUKN  Buildings, 

London,    Saturday. 

My  dear  Miss  Macleod, 

I  have  been  a  long  while  about  thanking  you  for  your 
book  of  poems,  but  I  have  been  shifting  from  Dublin  to 
London  and  very  busy  about  various  things — too  busy  for 
any  quiet  reading.  I  have  been  running  hither  and 
thither  seeing  people  about  one  thing  and  another.  But 
now  I  am  back  in  my  rooms  and  have  got  things  straight 
enough  to  settle  down  at  last  to  my  usual  routine.  Yes- 
terday I  began  arranging  under  their  various  heads 
some  hitherto  unsorted  folk-stories  on  which  I  am  about 
to  work,  and  today  I  have  been  busy  over  your  book.  I 
never  like  your  poetry  as  well  as  your  prose,  but  here 
and  always  you  are  a  wonderful  writer  of  myths.     They 


PROVENCE  335 

seem  your  natural  method  of  expressions.  They  are  to 
you  what  mere  words  are  to  others.  I  think  this  is 
partly  why  I  like  you  better  in  your  prose,  though  now 
and  then  a  bit  of  verse  comes  well,  rising  up  out  of  the 
prose,  in  your  simplest  prose  the  most,  the  myths  stand 
out  clearly,  as  something  objective,  as  something  well 
bom  and  independent.  In  your  more  elaborate  prose 
they  seem  subjective,  an  inner  way  of  looking  at  things 
assumed  by  a  single  mind.  They  have  little  independent 
life  and  seem  unique;  your  words  bind  them  to  you.  If 
Balzac  had  written  with  a  very  personal,  very  highly 
coloured  style,  he  would  have  always  drowned  his  inven- 
tions with  himself.  You  seem  to  feel  this,  for  when  you 
use  elaborate  words  you  invent  with  less  conviction  with 
less  precision,  with  less  delicacy  than  when  you  forget 
everything  but  the  myth.  I  will  take  as  example,  a  prose 
tale. 

That  beautiful  story  in  which  the  child  finds  the  Twelve 
Apostles  eating  porridge  in  a  cottage,  is  quite  perfect  in 
all  the  first  part,  for  then  you  think  of  nothing  but  the 
myth,  but  it  seems  to  me  to  fade  to  nothing  in  the  latter 
part.  For  in  the  latter  part  the  words  rise  up  beween 
you  and  the  myth.  You  yourself  begin  to  speak  and  we 
forget  the  apostles,  and  the  child  and  the  plate  and  the 
porridge.  Or  rather  the  more  mortal  part  of  you  begins 
to  speak,  the  mere  person,  not  the  god.  You,  as  I  think, 
should  seek  the  delights  of  style  in  utter  simplicity,  in  a 
self-effacing  rhythm  and  language ;  in  an  expression  that 
is  like  a  tumbler  of  water  rather  than  like  a  cup  of  wine, 
I  think  that  the  power  of  your  work  in  the  future  will  de- 
pend on  your  choosing  this  destiny.  Certainly  I  am  look- 
ing forward  to  "  The  Laughter  of  the  Queen."  I  thought 
your  last  prose,  that  pilgrimage  of  the  soul  and  mind  and 
body  to  the  Hills  of  Dream  promised  this  simple  style. 
It  had  it  indeed  more  than  anything  you  have  done. 

To  some  extent  I  have  an  advantage  over  you  in  hav- 
ing a  very  fierce  nation  to  write  for,  I  have  to  make 
everything  very  hard  and  clear,  as  it  were.  It  is  like  rid- 
ing a  wild  horse.    If  one's  hands  fumble  or  one's  knees 


336  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

loosen  one  is  thrown.  You  have  in  the  proper  sense  far 
more  imagination  than  I  have  and  that  makes  your  work 
correspondingly  more  difficult.  It  is  fairly  easy  for  me, 
who  do  so  much  of  my  work  by  the  critical,  rather  than 
the  imaginative  faculty,  to  be  precise  and  simple,  but  it  is 
hard  for  you  in  whose  mind  images  form  themselves  with- 
out ceasing  and  are  gone  as  quickly  perhaps. 

But  I  am  sure  that  I  am  right.  When  you  speak  with 
the  obviously  personal  voice  in  your  verse,  or  in  your 
essays  you  are  not  that  Fiona  who  has  invented  a  new 
thing,  a  new  literary  method.  You  are  that  Fiona  when 
the  great  myths  speak  through  you.  .  .  . 

Yours, 

W.  B.  Yeats. 

I  like  your  verses  on  Murias  and  like  them  the  better 
perhaps  because  of  the  curious  coincidence  that  I  did  in 
summer  verses  about  lovers  wandering  '  in  long  forgotten 
Murias.' 

During  the  spring  William  Sharp  had  prepared  a  vol- 
ume of  selections  from  the  j^oems  of  Swinburne,  with  an 
Introduction  by  himself,  for  publication  in  the  Tauchnitz 
Collection  of  British  Authors.  Mr.  Swinburne  consented 
that  the  selection  should  be  made  in  accordance  with  the 
critical  taste  of  the  Editor,  with  which  however  he  was 
not  in  complete  agreement.  He  expressed  his  views  in  a 
letter  dated  from  The  Pines,  Putney  Hill: 

Oct.  6th. 

Dear  Mr.  Sharp, 

Many  thanks  for  the  early  copy  you  have  had  the  kind- 
ness to  send  on  to  me.  I  am  pleased  to  find  the  Nympho- 
lept  in  a  leading  place,  as  I  think  it  one  of  the  best  and 
most  representative  things  I  ever  did.  I  should  have 
preferred  on  all  accounts  that  In  the  Bay  had  filled  the 
place  you  have  allotted  to  Ave  atque  Vale,  a  poem  to 
which  you  are  altogether  too  kind,  in  my  opinion,  as 
others  have  been  before  you.  I  never  had  really  much  in 
common  with  Baudelaire  tho'  I  retain  all  my  early  ad- 


PROVENCE  337 

miration  for  his  genius  at  its  best.  I  wish  there  were 
fewer  of  such  very  juvenile  crudities  as  you  have  se- 
lected from  my  first  volume  of  poems :  it  is  trying  to 
find  such  boyish  attempts  as  The  Sundew,  Aholibah,  Ma- 
donna Mia,  etc.,  offered  as  examples  of  the  work  of  a 
man  who  has  written  so  many  volumes  since  in  which 
there  is  nothing  that  is  not  at  least  better  and  riper  than 
they.  I  wish  too  that  Mater  Triumphalis  had  not  been 
separated  from  its  fellow  poem — a  much  fitter  piece  of 
work  to  stand  by  itself.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  very 
cordially  obliged  to  you  for  giving  the  detached  extract 
from  Anactoria.  I  should  greatly  have  jDreferred  that 
extracts  only  should  have  been  given  from  Atalanta  in 
Calydon,  which  sorely  needs  compression  in  the  earlier 
parts.  Erectheus,  which  would  have  taken  up  so  much 
less  space,  would  also,  I  venture  to  think,  have  been  a 
better  and  a  fairer  example  of  the  author's  work.  Mr. 
Watts  Dunton's  objections  to  the  book  is  the  omission 
of  Super  Flumina  Babylonis.  I  too  am  much  surprised 
to  find  it  excluded  from  a  selection  which  includes  so 
much  that  might  well  be  spared — nay,  would  be  better 
away.  I  would  like  to  have  seen  one  of  what  I  call  my 
topographical  poems  in  full.  The  tiny  scrap  from  Loch 
Torridon  was  hardly  worth  giving  by  itself.  I  do  not 
understand  what  you  find  obscure  or  melancholy  in  The 
Garden  of  Cymodoce.  It  was  written  simply  to  express 
my  constant  delight  in  the  recollection  of  Sark.  I  hope 
you  will  not  think  anything  in  this  note  captious  or  un- 
gracious. Candour  always  seems  to  be  the  best  ex^ 
pression  possible  of  gratitude  or  goodwill. 

Ever  sincerely  yours, 

A.  Swinburne. 

In  December  of  1901  F.  M.  wrote,  ostensibly  from 
Argyll,  to  Dr.  Goodchild :  "  I  had  hoped  by  this  time  to 
have  had  some  definite  knowledge  of  what  I  am  to  do, 
where  to  go  this  winter.  But  circumstances  keep  me 
here.  .  .  .  Our  friend,  too  (meaning  himself  as  W.  S.), 
is  kept  to  England  by  the  illness  of  others.    My  plans 


338  WILLIAM    SHARP 

though  turning  upon  different  issues  are  to  a  great  ex- 
tent dependent,  later,  on  his.  .  .  . 

I  have  much  to  do,  and  still  more  to  think  of,  and  it 
may  be  bring  to  life  through  the  mysterious  resurrection 
of  the  imagination. 

What  long  months  of  preparation  have  to  go  to  any 
writing  that  contains  life  within  it. — Even  the  slightest, 
the  most  significant,  as  it  seems !  We,  all  of  us  who  live 
this  dual  life  of  the  imagination  and  the  spirit,  do  indeed 
mysteriously  conceive,  and  fare  thereafter  in  weariness 
and  heaviness  and  long  travail,  only  for  one  small  un- 
certain birth.  It  is  the  common  law  of  the  spirit — as 
the  obverse  is  the  common  law  of  womanhood." 

And  again: 

"  Life  becomes  more  and  more  strange,  complex,  in- 
terwrought,  and  intentional.  But  it  is  the  end  that  mat- 
ters— not  individuals." 

Owing  to  my  Mother's  serious  illness  I  could  not  leave 
England  early  in  November,  as  we  had  intended.  Lon- 
don was  impossible  for  my  husband  for  he,  too,  was  ill. 
At  first  he  went  to  Hastings,  whence  he  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Philpot — author  of  The  Sacred  Tree: 

Hastings, 
Dec.  20,   1901. 

My  dear  Friend, 

You  would  have  enjoyed  "  being  me  "  yesterday.  I  had 
a  most  delightful  day  at  Rye  with  Henry  James  who 
now  lives  there  for  many  months  in  the  year.  I  went 
over  early,  lunched,  and  then  we  went  all  over  that  won- 
derfully picturesque  old  Cinque  Port.  A  lovely  walk  in 
a  frost-bound  still  country,  and  then  back  by  the  sombre 
old  Land  Gate,  over  the  misty  marshes  down  below,  and 
the  flame  red  Cypres  Tower  against  a  plum  coloured 
sunset,  to  Henry  James'  quaint  and  picturesque  old 
house  to  tea.  It  was  in  every  way  a  memorable  and 
delightful  day,  and  not  least  the  great  pleasure  of  inter- 


PROVENCE  339 

course  with  that  vivid  brilliant  and  alive  mind.  He  is 
as  of  course,  you  realise,  an  artist  to  the  finger  tips. 
Et  Us  sont  rares  ces  diables  d' esprit.  I  wish  it  were 
spring!  I  long  to  hear  the  missel  thrush  in  the  blos- 
soming pear  tree:  and  the  tingling  of  the  sap,  and  the 
laughter  in  the  blood.  I  suppose  we  are  all,  all  of  us 
ever  dreaming  of  resurrections.  .  .  . 

The  English  climate  proved  equally  impossible,  so  W. 
S.  went  to  Bordighera  to  be  near  Dr.  Goodchild.  But  he 
was  too  restless  to  remain  long  anywhere,  and  moved 
on  to  Rome  and  finally  to  Sicily.  He  wrote  to  Mr.  Rhys 
after  the  New  Year  from  II  Castello  di  Maniace: 

My  dear  Ernest, 

As  I  think  I  wrote  to  you,  I  fell  ill  with  a  form  of 
fever, — and  had  a  brief  if  severe  recurrence  of  it  at 
Rome:  and  so  was  glad  some  time  ago  to  get  on  to  my 
beloved  '  Greek '  Taormina,  where  I  rapidly  '  conva- 
lesced.' A  few  days  ago  I  came  on  here,  to  the  wilds 
inlands  of  the  Sicilian  Highlands,  to  spend  a  month  with 
my  dear  friend  here,  in  this  wonderful  old  '  Castle-Fort- 
ress-Monastery-Mansion— the  Castel'  Maniace  itself  be- 
ing over  2,000  feet  in  the  highlands  beyond  Etna,  and 
Maletto,  the  nearest  station  about  3,000. 

How  you  and  Grace  would  rejoice  in  this  region.  With- 
in a  day's  easy  ride  is  Enna,  sacred  to  Demeter,  and  about 
a  mile  or  so  from  Castel'  Maniace,  in  a  wild  desolate 
region  of  a  lava  wilderness,  is  the  lonely  heron-haunted 
moorland-lake  wherein  tradition  has  it  Persephone  dis- 
appeared. ...  W.  S. 

I  joined  him  early  in  February  at  Maniace  and  we 
remained  with  Mr.  Hood  for  a  month  of  sunshine  and 
flowers.  Among  other  guests  came  Miss  Maud  Valerie 
White.  She  was  wishful  that  the  pleasant  days  spent 
there  together  should  be  commemorated,  and  proposed 
that  W.  S.  should  write  a  short  poem,  that  she  would 
set  to  Sicilian  airs,  and  that  the  song  should  be  dedicated 


340  WILLIAM    SHARP 

to  our  host.  To  that  end  Mr.  Hood  summoned  to  the 
Castello  one  of  the  peasant  bagpipe  players,  who  one 
evening  walked  round  and  round  the  hall,  playing  the 
airs  that  are  played  each  Christmas  by  the  pipers  before 
the  shrines  to  the  Madonna  in  the  various  churches.  The 
result  of  that  evening  was  a  song,  "  Buon'  Riposo,"  writ- 
ten by  William  Sharp,  set  to  music  by  Miss  Valerie 
White,  and  published  by  Messrs.  Chappell. 

BUON'    RIPOSO 

When,  like   a   sleeping   child 

Or  a  bird  in  the  nest, 
The   day    is    gathered 

To  the  earth's  breast  .  .  . 
Hush!   .  .  .  'tis  the  dream-wind 
Breathing  peace, 
Breathing  rest 
Out  of  the  gardens  of  Sleep  in  the  West. 

O  come  to  me  .  .  .  wandering 

Wind   of   the   West! 
Gray   Doves   of   slumber 

Come  hither  to  nest.  .  .  . 
Ah,  sweet  now  the  fragrance 
Below   the   dim   trees 
Of  the  White  Rose  of  Rest 
That  blooms  in  the  gardens  of  Sleep  in  the  West. 

On  leaving  Maniace  W.  vS.  wrote  to  Dr.  Goodchild : 

Friday,   7th  March,    1902. 

To-morrow  we  leave  here  for  Taormina.  .  .  .  And,  not 
without  many  regrets,  I  am  glad  to  leave — as,  in  turn,  I 
shall  be  glad  (tho'  for  other  reasons)  when  the  time 
comes  to  leave  Taormina.  My  wife  says  I  am  never 
satisfied,  and  that  Paradise  itself  would  be  intolerable 
for  me  if  I  could  not  get  out  of  it  when  I  wanted.  And 
there  is  some  truth  in  what  she  says,  though  it  is  a  par- 
tial truth,  only.  I  think  external  change  as  essential  to 
some  natures  as  passivity  is  to  others :  but  this  may 
simply  mean  that  the  inward  life  in  one  person  may  best 
be  hypnotised  by  '  a  still  image,'  that  of  another  may  best 
be  hypnotised  by  a  wavering  image  or  series  of  wavering 


PROVENCE  341 

images.  It  is  not  change  of  scene  one  needs  so  much 
as  change  in  these  wavering  images.  For  myself,  I 
should,  now,  in  many  ways  be  content  to  spend  the  most 
of  my  life  in  some  quiet  place  in  the  country,  with  a 
garden,  a  line  of  poplars  and  tall  elms,  and  a  great  sweep 
of  sky.  ... 

Your  friend  atfectionately, 

William  Sharp. 

To  Mrs.  Philpot. 

Taormina, 
April  3,  1902. 

Dear  Friend, 

...  It  would  take  pages  to  describe  all  the  flowers 
and  other  near  and  far  objects  which  delight  one  con- 
tinually. Persephone  has  scattered  every  treasure  in  this 
her  birth-island.  From  my  room  here  in  the  Castello-a- 
Mare — this  long  terraced  hotel  is  built  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  a  precipitous  height  outside  the  Messina  Gate 
of  Taormina — I  look  down  first  on  a  maze  of  vividly  green 
almond  trees  sloping  swiftly  down  to  the  deep  blue  sea, 
and  over  them  the  snowy  vastness  of  Etna,  phantom- 
white  against  the  intense  blue,  with  its  hitherside  11.000 
feet  of  gulfs  of  violet  morning  shadow.  About  midway 
this  is  broken  to  the  right  first  by  some  ancient  cactus- 
covered  fragments  of  antiquity  at  the  corner  of  a  wind- 
ing path,  and  then  by  the  bend  of  Santa  Caterina  garden 
wall  with  fine  tall  plume-like  cypresses  filled  with  a  living 
green  darkness,  silhouetted  against  the  foam-white  cone. 

My  French  windows  open  on  the  terrace,  it  is  lovely  to 
go  out  early  in  the  morning  to  watch  sunrise  (gold  to 
rose-flame)  coming  over  Calabria,  and  the  purple-blue 
emerald  straits  of  Messina  and  down  by  the  wildly  pic- 
turesque shores  of  these  island  coasts  and  across  the 
Ionian  sea,  and  lying  like  a  bloom  on  the  incredible  vast- 
ness of  Etna  and  its  rise  from  distant  Syracuse  and  Mt. 
Hybla  to  its  cone  far  beyond  the  morning  clouds  when 
clouds  there  are — or  to  go  out  at  sunrise  and  see  a  mira- 
cle of  beauty  being  woven  anew — or  at  night  when  there 
is  no  moon,  but  only  the  flashing  of  the  starry  torches. 


342  WILLIAM    SHARP 

the  serpentine  glitter  of  lights,  the  soft  cry  of  the  aziola, 
and  the  drowsy  rhythmic  cadence  of  the  sea  in  the  caves 
and  crags  far  below.  Just  now  the  hum  of  bees  is  almost 
as  loud  as  the  drowsy  sighing  of  the  sea:  among  the 
almonds  a  boy  is  singing  a  long  drowsy  Greek-like  chant, 
and  on  the  mass  of  wild  rock  near  the  cypresses  a  goat- 
herd is  playing  intermittently  on  a  reed  pipe.  A  few 
yards  to  the  right  is  a  long  crescent-shaped  terrace  gar- 
den filled  with  roses,  great  shrublike  clumps  of  white  and 
yellow  marguerite,  myrtle,  lilies,  narcissus,  sweet-scented 
blossom-covered  geranium,  oranges  hanging  in  yellow 
flame,  pale-gold  lemons.  Below  the  branches  a  "  Purple 
Emperor  "  and  a  snow-white  "  May  Queen  "  are  hovering 
in  buttei*fly  wooing.  On  an  oleander  above  a  wilderness 
of  pink  and  scarlet  geraniums  two  blue  tits  are  singing 
and  building,  building  and  singing. 

Since  I  wrote  the  above  Easter  has  intervened.  The 
strange  half  pagan,  half  Christian  ceremonies  interested 
me  greatly,  and  in  one  of  the  ceremonials  of  one  pro- 
cessional part  I  recognized  a  striking  survival  of  the 
more  ancient  Greek  rites  of  the  Demeter  and  the  Perse- 
phonae-Kore  cult. 

To  Mrs.  Janvier. 

Taobmina. 

...  It  is  difficult  to  do  anything  here.  I  should  like  to 
come  sometime  without  nything  to  do — without  even  a 
book  to  read :  simply  to  come  and  dream,  to  re-live  many 
of  the  scenes  of  this  inexhaustible  region  of  romance:  to 
see  in  vision  the  coming  and  going  of  that  innumerable 
company — from  Ulysses  and  his  wanderers,  from  Py- 
thagoras and  St.  Peter,  from  that  Pancrazio  who  had 
seen  Christ  in  the  flesh,  from  ^Eschylus,  and  Dionysius 
and  Hiero  and  Gelon,  from  Pindar  and  Simonides  and 
Theocritus,  to  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  and  Garibaldi  and 
Lord  Nelson — what  a  strange  company !  .  .  . 

As  for  my  own  work,  it  is  mostly  (what  there  is  of  it!) 
dealing  with  the  literature,  etc.,  of  the  south.    I  do  not 


PROVENCE  343 

know  whether  my  long  article  on  Contemporary  Italian 
Poetry  is  to  be  in  the  April-June  issue  of  The  Quarterly, 
or  the  summer  issue.  I  am  more  interested  in  a  strange 
Greek  drama  I  am  writing — The  Kore  of  Enna — than  in 
anything  I  have  taken  up  for  a  long  time.  My  reading 
just  now  is  mostly  Greek  history  and  Italian  literature. 
.  .  .  Looking  on  this  deep  blue,  often  violet  sea,  with  the 
foam  washing  below  that  perhaps  laved  the  opposite 
shores  of  Greece,  and  hearing  the  bees  on  the  warm  wind, 
it  is  difficult  to  realise  the  wet  and  cold  you  have  appar- 
ently had  recently  in  New  York — or  the  fogs  and  cold  in 
London.  I  wish  you  could  bask  in  and  sun  yourself  on 
this  sea-terrace,  and  read  me  the  last  you  have  written 
of  "  Captain  Dionysius  "  while  /  give  you  tea ! 

During  our  first  visit  to  Sicily,  though  my  husband 
realised  the  beauty  of  the  island,  he  could  not  feel  its 
charm  or  get  in  touch  with  the  spirit  of  the  place  because 
he  was  overborne  by  the  sense  of  battle  and  bloodshed 
that  he  felt  pervaded  it.  When  I  suggested  how  much 
the  fascination  of  the  beautiful  island  had  seized  hold 
of  me  he  would  say :  "  No,  I  cannot  feel  it  for  the  ground 
is  sodden  and  every  leaf  drips  with  blood."  To  his  great 
relief,  on  his  return  there  he  found,  as  he  said,  that  he 
had  got  beyond  the  surface  of  things,  had  pierced  down 
to  the  great  essentials  of  the  ancient  land,  and  had  be- 
come one  of  her  devoted  lovers. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

LISMORE 

Taormina 

Our  summer  was  spent  on  Arran,  Colinsay,  and  on 
"  the  Green  Isle  "  of  Lismore  in  the  sea-mouth  of  Loch 
Linnhe  within  sight  of  the  blue  hills  of  Morven.  We  had 
rooms  in  the  Ferr^nnan's  cottage  at  the  north  point  of 
the  isle,  where  the  tide  race  was  so  strong  at  the  ebb  in 
stormy  weather  that  at  times  it  was  impossible  to  row 
across  to  the  Appin  shore,  even  to  fetch  a  telegram  whose 
advent  was  signalled  to  us  by  a  little  flag  from  the  post 
office — a  quicker  way  of  getting  it  than  by  the  long  road 
from  the  Lismore  post  office.  We  spent  much  of  our  time 
on  the  water  in  a  little  rowing  boat.  A  favourite  haunt 
was  a  little  Isle  of  Seals,  in  the  loch,  where  we  one 
day  found  a  baby  seagull,  fat  and  fully  fledged,  but  a 
prisoner  by  reason  of  a  long  piece  of  grass  that  had 
tightly  wound  round  and  atrophied  one  of  its  feet.  Some- 
times our  friend  the  ferryman  would  come  too.  At  first 
he  refused  to  talk  if  I  was  there,  because  I  could  not 
speak  Gaelic,  and  he  thought  I  was  English.  But  at  last 
when  I  had  reassured  him  that  I  too  was  a  Scot,  when  he 
admitted  that  though  I  had  not  a  Highland  tongue  I  had 
Highland  eyes  just  like  his  mother's — his  shyness  wore 
away.  And  one  day  when  we  were  out  on  the  loch  at 
sundown,  and  an  exquisite  rosy  flush  lay  over  hill  and 
water,  he  stopped  rowing  and  leant  over  his  oars,  silent 
for  a  time,  and  at  last  murmured  in  his  slow  High- 
land English  "  'Tis — the — smile — of  God — upon — the — 
waters." 

At  Lismore  F.  M.  wrote,  to  quote  the  author's  own 
words,  "  '  The  Four  Winds  of  Eire '  (long) ;  '  The  Magic 
Kingdoms '    (longer   and   profounder,   one   of   the   best 

344 


LISMORE  345 

things  F.  M.  has  ever  written) ;  '  Sea-Magic  '  (a  narrative 
and  strange  Sea-Lore) ;  '  The  Lynn  of  Dreams'  (a  spir- 
itual study) ;  and  *  Seumas  '  (a  memory)." 

During  the  summer  and  autumn  he  had,  as  F.  M.,  also 
written  a  long  study  on  the  work  of  W.  B,  Yeats  for  The 
North  American  Review;  had  arranged  the  first  volume 
of  a  selection  of  tales  for  the  Tauchnitz  series,  entitled 
Wind  and  Wave;  and  had  prepared  a  revised  and  aug- 
mented edition  of  The  Silence  of  Amor  for  publication  in 
America  by  Mr.  Mosher.  W.  S.  meanwhile  had  not  been 
idle.  After  editing  a  volume  of  the  Poems  by  our  friend, 
Eugene  Lee-Hamilton,  with  a  long  Introduction  for  The 
Canterbury  Poets,  he  was  at  work  on  a  series  of  articles 
which  were  intended  for  a  projected  book  to  be  called 
Literary  Geography ;  and  of  these  there  appeared  in 
Harper's  "  Walter  Scott's  Land,"  "  R.  L.  Stevenson's 
Country  " ;  and  a  poem,  "  Capt'n  Goldsack." 

Unfortunately,  his  increasing  delicacy  not  only  dis- 
abled him  from  the  continuous  heavy  strain  of  work  he 
was  under,  but  our  imperative  absence  from  England 
necessitated  also  the  relinquishing  of  my  journalistic 
work.  The  stress  of  circumstances  weighed  heavily  on 
him,  as  he  no  longer  had  the  energy  and  buoyancy  with 
which  to  make  way  against  it.  At  this  jimcture,  how- 
ever, one  or  two  friends,  who  realised  the  seriousness  of 
conditions  petitioned  that  he  should  be  put  on  the  Civil 
Pension  List.  The  Hon.  Alex.  Nelson  Hood  and  Mr.  Al- 
fred Austin  were  tlie  chief  movers  in  the  matter,  and 
were  backed  by  Mr.  George  Meredith,  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy 
and  Mr.  Watts  Dunton.  Realising  however,  that  the 
writings  of  William  Sharp,  considered  alone,  would  not 
constitute  a  sufficient  claim,  Mr.  Hood  urged  William  to 
allow  him  to  acquaint  the  Prime  Minister  with  the  author- 
ship of  the  Fiona  Macleod  writings,  and  of  the  many 
sacrifices  their  production  had  entailed.  My  husband 
consented  providing  that  Mr.  Balfour  were  told  "  confi- 
dentially and  verbally."  However,  it  proved  necessary 
that  "  a  statement  of  entire  claims  to  consideration  should 
be  laid  upon  the  table  of  the  House  of  Commons  for  the 


346  WILLIAM    SHARP 

inspection  of  members."    In  writing  to  acquaint  my  hus- 
band of  this  regulation,  Mr.  Hood  added : 

"  I  do  not  presume  to  say  one  word  to  influence  you  in 
the  decision  yoii  may  come  to.  In  such  a  matter  it  is  for 
you  to  decide.  If  you  will  sacrifice  your  unwillingness 
to  appear  before  the  world  in  all  the  esteem  and  admira- 
tion which  are  your  due,  then,  (I  may  say  this)  perhaps 
you  will  obtain  freedom — or  some  freedom — from  anxi- 
ety and  worry  that  will  permit  you  to  continue  your  work 
unhampered  and  with  a  quiet  mind.  But  advice  I  cannot 
give.  I  cannot  recommend  any  one  to  abandon  a  high 
ideal,  and  your  wish  to  remain  unknown  is  certainly 
that.  .  .  ." 


To  this  W.  S.  replied ; 

Edinburgh, 
21st  Aug.,  1902. 

My  deak  Alec, 

You  will  have  anticipated  my  decision.  No  other  was 
possible  for  me.  I  have  not  made  many  sacrifices  just  to 
set  them  aside  when  a  temptation  of  need  occurs.  In- 
deed, even  writing  thus  of  '  sacrifices '  seems  to  me  un- 
worthy: these  things  are  nothing,  and  have  brought  me 
far  more  than  I  lost,  if  not  in  outward  fortune.  It  is 
right,  though,  to  say  that  the  decision  is  due  to  no  form 
of  mental  obstinacy  or  arrogance.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  I 
am  conscious  of  something  to  be  done — to  be  done  by  one 
side  of  me,  by  one  half  of  me,  by  th'fe  true  inward  self  as 
I  believe — (apart  from  the  overwhelmingly  felt  mystery 
of  a  dual  self,  and  a  reminiscent  life,  and  a  woman's  life 
and  nature  within,  concurring  with  and  oftenest  dominat- 
ing the  other) — and  rightly  or  wrongly  I  believe  that  this, 
and  the  style  so  strangely  born  of  this  inward  life,  de- 
pend upon  my  aloofness  and  spiritual  isolation  as  F.  M. 
To  betray  publicly  the  private  life  and  constrained  ideal 
of  that  inward  self,  for  a  reward's  sake,  would  be  a  poor 
collapse.  And  if  I  feel  all  this,  as  I  felt  it  from  the  first 
(and  the  nominal  beginning  was  no  literary  adventure, 
but   a   deep   spiritual   impulse   and   compelling   circum- 


LISMORE  347 

stances  of  a  nature  upon  which  I  must  be  silent)  how 
much  more  must  I  feel  it  now,  when  an  added  and  great 
responsibility  to  others  has  come  to  me,  through  the  win- 
ning of  so  already  large  and  deepening  a  circle  of  those 
of  like  ideals  or  at  least  like  sympathies  in  our  own  coun- 
try, and  in  America — and  I  allude  as  much  or  more  to 
those  who  while  caring  for  the  outer  raiment  think  of  and 
need  most  the  spirit  within  that  raiment,  which  I  hope 
will  grow  fairer  and  simpler  and  finer  still,  if  such  is  the 
will  of  the  controlling  divine  wills  that,  above  the  maze, 
watch  us  in  our  troubled  wilderness. 

That  is  why  I  said  that  I  could  not  adopt  the  sugges- 
tion, despite  promise  of  the  desired  pension,  even  were 
that  tenfold,  or  any  sum.  As  to  '  name  and  fame,'  well, 
that  is  not  my  business.  I  am  glad  and  content  to  be  a 
'  messenger,'  an  interpreter  it  may  be.  Probably  a  wide 
repute  would  be  bad  for  the  work  I  have  to  do.  Friends 
I  want  to  gain,  to  win  more  and  more,  and,  in  reason, 
"  to  do  well " :  but  this  is  always  secondary  to  the  deep 
compelling  motive.  In  a  word,  and  quite  simply,  I  be- 
lieve that  a  spirit  has  breathed  to  me,  or  entered  me,  or 
that  my  soul  remembers  or  has  awaked  (the  phraseology 
matters  little) — and,  that  being  so,  that  my  concern  is  not 
to  think  of  myself  or  my  '  name '  or  '  reward,'  but  to  do 
(with  what  renunciation,  financial  and  other,  may  be 
necessary)  my  truest  and  best. 

And  then,  believing  this,  I  have  faith  you  see  in  the 
inward  destiny.  I  smiled  when  I  put  down  your  long, 
affectionate,  and  good  letter.  But  it  was  not  a  smile  of 
bitterness:  it  was  of  serene  acceptance  and  confidence. 
And  the  words  that  came  to  my  mind  were  those  in  the 
last  chorus  of  Oedipus  at  Kolonos, 

"  Be  no  more  troubled,  and  no  longer  lament,  for  all 
these  things  will  be  accomplished." 

Then,  too,  there's  the  finitude  of  all  things.  Why 
should  one  bother  deeply  when  time  is  so  brief.  Even 
the  gods  passed,  you  know,  or  changed  from  form  to 
form.  I  used  to  remember  Kenan's  '  Prayer  on  the 
Acropolis  '  by  heart,  and  I  recall  those  words  "  Tout  n'est 


348  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

ici-bas  que  symbole  et  que  songe.  Les  dieux  passent 
comme  les  hommes  et  il  ne  serait  pas  bon  qu'ils  fussent 
eternels."  .  .  . 

Elizabeth,  who  is  on  a  visit  to  Fife,  will,  I  know,  whole- 
heartedly endorse  my  decision. 

Again  all  my  gratitude  and  affection,  dear  Alec, 

Your  friend, 

Will. 

Early  in  September  Mr.  Hood  sent  the  welcome  infor- 
mation to  my  husband  that  the  Prime  Minister  had  de- 
cided "on  the  strength  of  the  assurance  that  Mr.  Sharp 
is  F.  M."  to  make  him  a  grant  that  would  meet  his  press- 
ing needs  and  enable  him  to  go  abroad  for  the  winter. 

A  few  days  before  this  message  reached  W.  S.  he  had 
written  to  his  friend. 

23d   Aug. 

Dear  Julian, 

A  little  line  to  greet  you  on  your  arrival  in  Venice, 
and  to  wish  you  there  a  time  of  happy  rest  and  inspira- 
tion. May  the  spirit  of  the  Sea-Queen  whisper  to  you  in 
romance  and  beauty. 

How  I  wish  I  could  look  in  on  you  at  the  Casa  Persico  I 
I  love  Venice  as  you  do.  I  hope  you  will  not  find  great 
changes,  or  too  many  visitors:  and  beware  of  the  Sep- 
tember heats,  and  above  all  the  September  mosquito ! 

"  Julian  "  ought  to  have  a  great  lift,  and  not  the  least 
pleasure  in  looking  forward  to  seeing  you  again  early  in 
October  is  that  of  hearing  some  more  of  your  book  of 
Venice  and  of  the  other  Julian. 

[''Julian"  is  the  name  of  the  hero  of  a  book,  Adria,. 
on  which  Mr.  Hood  was  then  at  work.] 

If  all  goes  well — and  I  have  been  working  so  hard,  and 
done  so  much,  that  things  ought  to  go  smoothly  with  me 
again — then  we  hope  to  leave  London  for  Sicily  about  the 
21st  Oct.,  and  to  reach  Taormina  about  the  26th  of  that 
month. 

I  need  not  say  how  glad  I  am  that  you  Txnew  I  could 
not  decide  otherwise  than  I  did :  and  I  am  more  than  ever 


LISMORE  349 

glad  and  proud  of  a  friendship  so  deeply  sympathetic  and 
intuitively  understanding. 

Ever  affectionately  yours,  dear  Friend, 

Will. 

P.  S.  By  the  way,  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  Baron 
Tauchnitz  is  also  going  to  bring  out  in  2  vols,  a  selection 
of  representative  tales  by  Fiona  Macleod.  The  book 
called  The  Magic  Kingdoms  has  been  postponed  till  next 
year,  but  the  first  part  of  it  will  appear  in  The  Monthly 
Review  in  December  probably.  Stories,  articles,  studies, 
will  appear  elsewhere. 

Your  friend  W.  S.  has  been  and  is  not  less  busy,  besides 
maturing  work  long  in  hand.  So  at  least  I  can't  be  ac- 
cused of  needless  indolence. 

To  his  great  relief  October-end  found  us  at  Taormina 
once  again;  and  on  Allhallow-e'en  he  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Janvier : 

Oct.  30th. 

.  .  .  We  reached  Messina  all  right,  and  Giardini,  the 
Station  for  Taormina,  in  fair  time ;  then  the  lovely  wind- 
ing drive  up  to  unique  and  beautiful  and  wildly  pictur- 
esque Taormina  and  to  the  lovely  winter  villa  and 
grounds  of  Santa  Caterina  where  a  warm  welcome  met 
us  from  Miss  Mabel  Hill,  with  whom  we  are  to  stay  till 
the  New  Year.  ...  I  have  for  study  a  pleasant  room 
on  the  garden  terrace,  at  the  Moorish  end  of  the  old  con- 
vent-villa with  opposite  the  always  open  door  windows 
or  great  arch  trellised  with  a  lovely  '  Japanesy '  vine, 
looking  down  through  a  sea  of  roses  and  lemon  and  or- 
ange to  the  deep  blue  Ionian  Sea.  The  divine  beauty, 
glow,  warmth,  fragrance,  and  classic  loveliness  of  this 
l^lace  would  delight  you.  .  .  .  Overhead  there  is  a  wilder- 
ness of  deep  blue,  instinct  with  radiant  heat  and  an  al- 
most passionate  clarity.  Forza,  Mola,  Roccafiorita,  and 
other  little  mountain  towns  gleam  in  it  like  sunlit  ivory. 
Over  Forza  (or  Sforza  rather)  the  storm-cloud  of  the 
Greco,  with  a  rainbow  hanging  like  a  scimitar  over  the 


350  WILLIAM    SHARP 

old,  pagan,  tragic,  savagely  picturesque  mountain-ridge 
town.  The  bells  of  the  hill-chapels  rise  and  fall  on  the 
wind,  for  it  is  the  beginning  of  All  Souls  festa.  It  is  the 
day  when  *  things '  are  abroad  and  the  secret  ways  are 
more  easily  to  be  traversed. 

Beneath  my  Moorish  arch  I  look  down  through  cluster- 
ing yellow  roses  and  orange  and  lemon  to  green-blue 
water,  and  thence  across  the  wild-dove's  breast  of  the 
Ionian  Sea.  Far  to  the  S.  E.  and  S.,  over  where  Corinth 
and  Athens  lie,  are  great  still  clouds,  salmon-hued  on  the 
horizon  with  pink  domes  and  summits.  An  intense  still- 
ness and  the  phantasmagoria  of  a  forgotten  dreamland 
dwell  upon  the  long  western  promontories  of  the  Syra- 
cusan  coast,  with  the  cloud-like  Hyblaean  hill  like  a  violet, 
and  a  light  as  of  melting  honey  where  Leontinoi  and  Sira- 
cusa  lie.  .  .  . 

Nov.  8:  This  is  a  week  later.  I  have  accidentally  de- 
stroyed or  mislaid  a  sheet  of  this  letter.  Nothing  of  im- 
portance— only  an  account  of  the  nocturnal  festa  of  All 
Souls,  with  the  glittering  lights  and  the  people  watching 
by  the  graves,  and  leaving  lights  and  flowers  on  each,  the 
one  to  show  the  wandering  souls  the  way  back  to  the 
grave,  the  other  to  disguise  the  odour  of  mortality  and 
illude  them  with  the  old  beauty  of  the  lost  world — and 
the  offerings  of  handfuls  of  beans,  to  give  them  suste- 
nance on  this  their  one  mortal  hour  in  the  year).  We 
three  came  here  yesterday  (Elizabeth,  Miss  Hill  and  I) 
and  enjoyed  the  marvellous  mountain-climbing  journey 
from  the  sea-level  of  Giarre  (near  Catania)  up  to  beau- 
tiful Linguaglossa,  and  Castiglione  2000  ft.  high  and  so 
on  to  Eandazzo  and  Maletto  (3000  ft.)  where  we  got  out, 
and  drove  thro'  the  wild  lava-lands  of  this  savage  and 
brigand  haunted  region  to  Castello  di  Maniace  where  il 
Signor  Ducino  Alessandro  gave  us  cordial  and  affection- 
ate welcome. 

Sunday  9th.  The  t  eather  is  doubtful,  but  if  it  keeps 
fine  we  are  going  to  drive  down  the  gorges  of  the  Simal- 
thos  (the  Simeto  of  today)  and  then  up  by  the  crags  and 
wild  town  of  Bronte,  and  back  by  the  old  ^tnean  hill- 


LISMORE  351 

road  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  or  by  the  still  more  ancient 
Sikelian  tombs  at  a  high  pass  curiously  enough  known 
not  by  its  ancient  fame  but  as  the  Pass  of  the  Gipsies.  As 
the  country  is  in  a  somewhat  troubled  and  restive  state 
just  now,  especially  over  Bronte,  all  pre-arrangements 
have  been  made  to  ensure  safety.  .  .  . 

I  hope  you  have  received  the  Tauchnitz  volume  of 
"  Wind  and  Wave."  The  text  of  Selected  Tales  has  been 
revised  where  advisable,  sometimes  considerably.  The 
gain  is  very  marked  I  think,  especially  in  simplicity.  I 
hope  you  will  like  the  preface.  The  long  collective-article 
in  the  Contemporary  for  October  "  Sea-Magic  and  Run- 
ning Water  "  I  have  already  written  to  you  about.  One 
can  never  tell  beforehand,  but  in  all  probability  the  fol- 
lowing F.  M.  articles  will  appear  in  December  (if  not 
January)  issues,  viz.: 

In  The  Monthly  Rerieu- — The  Magic  Kingdoms. 
In  The  Contemporary — The  Lynn  of  Dreams. 
In  The  Fortnightly — The  Four  Winds  of  Eirinn. 

As  soon  as  I  can  possibly  work  free  out  of  my  terribly 
time-eating  correspondence,  and  am  further  ahead  with 
my  necessary  and  commissioned  pot-boiling  articles  etc. 
I  want  to  put  together  two  F.  M.  volumes,  one  a  vol.  of 
Gaelic  essays  and  Spiritual  studies  to  be  called  For  The 
Beauty  of  an  Idea  and  the  other  a  volume  of  Verse  to  be 
called  probably  "  The  Immortal  Hour  and  Poems  "  or 
else  "  The  Enchanted  Valleys."  But  I  have  first  a  great 
deal  to  get  off  as  W.  S.  and  F.  M. 

What  is  dear  old  Tom  doing  now  ?  Give  him  my  love, 
and  affectionate  hug,  bless  the  old  reprobate !  I  was  de- 
lighted to  meet  an  American  admirer  (and  two  hanger-on 
American  admiresses)  of  his  in  Florence,  who  spoke  of 
his  work  with  much  admiration  as  well  as  personal  de- 
light. So  I  warmed  to  them  mightily  in  consequence,  and 
had  the  pleasure  of  introducing  the  latest  production — 
the  delightful  "  Consolate  Giantess." 

What  a  letter  in  length  this  is!  too  long  for  even  you, 
I  fear." 


352  WILLIAM    SHARP 

The  following  letter  from  Mr.  Robert  Hicliens,  an- 
other devoted  lover  of  Sicily,  reached  William  Sharp  at 
Maniace : 

Dover, 
Nov.  4,  1902. 

My  dear  Will, 

.  .  .  The  cold  is  setting  in  and  today  there  is  a  fierce 
east  wind.  I  scarcely  dare  think  of  what  you  are  enjoy- 
ing. I  had  hoped  to  join  you  at  the  end  of  this  month, 
but  the  fates  are  unkind.  When  I  do  get  away  I  may 
first  have  to  go  to  the  Desert  as  I  am  meditating  some 
work  there.  Then  I  hope  to  make  my  way  there  to  Sicily 
but  only  late  in  Spring.  Will  you  still  be  there !  There  is 
magic  in  its  air — or  else  beauty  acts  on  the  body  as  pow- 
erfully as  on  the  soul,  and  purifies  the  blood  as  well  as 
the  soul.  .  .  . 

Every  sentence  I  write  wrings  my  heart.  I  ought  not 
to  write  about  Sicily.  Felix  was  begun  in  that  delight- 
ful room  at  Maniace — with  Webster,  thoughtfully  posed 
by  Alec — on  a  side  table  within  easy  reach. 

Thank  you  again  for  your  kind  inspiring  letter.  I 
value  praise  from  you. 

Yours  cordially, 

Robert  Hichens. 

Miss  Hill  and  I  returned  to  Sta.  Caterina  and  left  my 
husband  at  Maniace,  whence  a  few  days  later  he  wrote  to 
me: 

Castello  di  Maniace, 

15th  Nov.,  1902. 

How  you  would  have  enjoyed  today!  .  .  .  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  its  kind  I've  ever  had.  It  was  quite 
dark  when  we  rose  shortly  before  six,  but  lovely  dawn 
by  6,15,  and  after  a  gigantic  breakfast  we  all  set  off  all 
armed  with  rifles  and  revolvers.  We  drove  up  to  the  cut- 
ting to  the  left,  I  of  a  mile  below  Otaheite,  and  there  di- 
verged and  went  up  the  wild  road  of  the  Zambuco  Pass, 
and  for  another  five  miles  of  ascent.  Then  we  were  met 
by  the  forest  guard  and  Meli  with  great  jennets  (huge 


LISMORE  353 

hill-mules  as  big  as  horses)  and  rode  over  the  Serraspina 
(6,000  feet).  To  my  great  pleasure  it  was  decided  we 
could  risk  the  further  ascent  of  the  great  central  AVater- 
shed  of  Sicily,  the  Serra  del  Re  (8,000  ft.)  and  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  All  the  way  from  about  4,000  ft.  the  air 
was  extraordinarily  light  and  intoxicating — and  the 
views  of  Central  Sicily  magnificent  l^eyond  words.  When 
we  had  ridden  to  about  7,500  feet  thro'  wild  mountain 
gorges,  up  vast  slopes,  across  great  plateaux,  and  at  last 
into  the  l)eginning  of  the  vast  dense  primeval  beech-for- 
ests (all  an  indescribable  glory  of  colour)  we  dismounted 
and  did  the  remaining  half  hour  on  foot.  Then  at  last  we 
were  on  the  summit  of  the  great  central  watershed. 
Thence  everything  to  the  south  flows  to  the  Ionian  Sea, 
everything  to  the  north  to  the  Tyrrhenian  and  Mediter- 
ranean. 

And  oh  the  views  and  the  extraordinary  clarity !  Even 
with  the  naked  eye  I  saw  all  the  inland  mountains  and 
valleys  and  lost  forgotten  towns,  Troina  on  its  two  hills, 
Castrogiovanni  and  Alcara,  etc.  etc.  And  with  the  pow- 
erful binoculars  I  could  see  all  the  houses,  and  trace  the 
streets  and  ruined  temples  etc.  in  Castrogiovanni  on  its 
extraordinary  raised  altar-like  mountain  plateau.  Then, 
below  us,  lay  all  the  northern  shores  of  Sicily  from  Capo 
Cefalu  to  Milazzo  on  its  beautiful  great  bay,  and  Capo 
Milazzo,  and  the  Lipari  Islands  (so  close  with  the  glass  I 
could  see  the  few  houses  on  their  wild  precipitous  shores, 
from  '  Volcano,'  the  original  home  of  Vulcan,  and  Lipari 
itself  to  Stromboli,  and  white  ships  sailing.  Enna  (Cas- 
trogiovanni) immensely  imposing  and  unforgettable. 
And,  behind  us,  Etna  vaster,  sheerer,  more  majestic, 
more  terrible,  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of  it. 

Then  we  lunched,  amid  that  extraordinary  and  vast 
panorama — seeing  2,000  feet  below  us  the  "  almost  in- 
accessible "  famous  Lake  of  Balzano,  with  its  Demeter 
and  Persephone  associations  (itself  about  6,000  feet 
among  the  mountains!)  All  enjoyed  it  unspeakably,  ex- 
cept poor  old  Meli,  very  nervous  about  brigands — poor 
old  chap,  a  ransom  of  800  francs  had  to  be  paid  to  the 


354  WILLIAM    SHARP 

capitano  of  the  brigand-lot  to  free  his  nephew,  who  is  now 
ill  after  his  confinement  for  many  days  in  a  hole  under 
the  lava,  where  he  was  half  suffocated,  and  would  have 
soon  died  from  cold  and  damp  and  malaria. 

On  the  way  down  (in  the  forest,  at  about  6,000  feet) 
Alec  suddenly  without  a  word  dashed  aside,  and  sprang 
through  the  sloping  undergrowth,  and  the  next  moment 
I  saw  him  holding  his  revolver  at  the  head  of  a  man 
crouching  behind  a  mass  of  bramble,  etc.  But  the  latter 
had  first  managed  to  hide  or  throw  away  his  gun^  and 
swore  he  hadn't  got  one,  and  meant  no  harm,  and  that 
the  ugly  weapon  he  carried  (a  light,  long  axe  of  a  kind) 
was  to  defend  himself  from  the  wolves !  His  companion 
had  successfully  escaped.  The  man  slunk  away,  to  be 
arrested  later  by  the  Carabinieri. 

On  his  return  to  Taormina  W.  S.  wrote  to  the  Author 
of  Adria,  who  had  gone  to  Venice  for  "  local  colour  " : 

Taobmina, 
CaKO    Fea   GiULIANO,  19th  Nov.,  1902. 

To  my  surprise  I  hear  from  our  common  friend,  Mr. 
Aurelio  Da  Rii,  the  painter  of  Venice,  that  you  are  at 
present  staying  at  San-Francisco-in-Deserto.  This  seems 
to  me  a  damp  and  cold  place  to  choose  for  November,  but 
possibly  you  are  not  to  be  there  long :  indeed,  Da  Eu  hints 
at  an  entanglement  with  a  lady  named  "  Adria."  Per- 
haps I  am  indiscreet  in  this  allusion.  If  so,  pray  for- 
give me.  The  coincidence  struck  me  as  strange,  for  only 
the  other  day  I  heard  our  friend  Alec  Hood  speaking  of 
an  Adria,  of  whom,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  he  seemed  to 
think  very  highly.  By  the  way,  I  wouldn't  tell  him 
(A.  H.)  too  much  of  your  affairs  or  doings — or  he  may 
put  them  in  a  book.    (He's  a  "  literary  feller  "  you  know!) 

I  have  just  been  staying  with  him — and  I  wish  when 
you  see  him  you  would  tell  him  what  a  happy  time  I  had 
at  Maniace,  and  how  pleasantly  I  remember  all  our  walks 
and  talks  and  times  together,  and  how  the  true  affection 
of  a  deepened  friendship  is  only  the  more  and  more  en- 
hanced and  confirmed. 


LISMORE  355 

It  is  a  lovely  day,  and  very  warm  and  delightful.  Sit- 
ting by  the  open  French-window  of  my  study,  with  a 
bunch  of  narcissus  on  my  table,  there  is  all  the  illusion 
of  Spring.  I  have  just  gone  into  an  adjoining  Enchanted 
Garden  I  often  frequent,  and  gathered  there  some  sprays 
of  the  Balm  of  Peace,  the  azure  blossoms  of  Hope,  and 
the  white  roses  of  Serenity  and  Happiness  and  sending 
them,  by  one  of  the  wild-doves  of  loving  thought  and  sym- 
pathy and  affection,  to  Alec  at  Maniace. 

Ever,  dear  Era  Giuliano,  with  love  to  Da  Ru,  the  Gra- 
ziani,  the  Manins,  and  above  all  to  Alec, 

Yours, 

Will. 

And  again  two  days  later: 

Shar  Shan,  Bor! 

Which,  being  interpreted,  is  Romany  (Gypsy)  for 
"  How  d'ye  do.  Mate ! " — I  fear  you  are  having  a  bad 
day  for  your  return  to  Maniace.  Here,  at  any  rate,  'tis 
evil  weather.  Last  night  the  wind  rose  (after  ominous 
signals  of  furtive  lightnings  in  every  quarter)  to  the 
extent  of  tempest:  and  between  two  and  three  a.m.  be- 
came a  hurricane.  This  lasted  at  intervals  till  dawn,  and 
indeed  since:  and  at  times  I  thought  a  cyclone  had 
seized  Taormina  and  was  intent  on  removing  '  Santa 
Caterina '  on  to  the  top  of  Isola  Bella.  Naturally,  sleep 
was  broken.  And  in  one  long  spell,  when  wind  and  a 
coarse  rain  (with  a  noise  like  sheep  that  has  become 
sleet)  kept  wakefulness  in  suspense,  my  thoughts  turned 
to  Venice,  to  Giuliano  in  the  lonely  rain-beat  wave- 
washed  sanctuary  of  San-Francisco-in-Deserto ;  to  Dani- 
ele  Manin,  with  his  dreams  of  the  Venice  that  was  and 
his  hopes  of  the  Venice  to  be;  and  to  Adria,  stilled  at 
last  in  her  grave  in  the  lagunes  after  all  her  passionate 
life  and  heroic  endeavour.  And  then  I  thought  of  the 
Venice  they,  and  you,  and  I,  love: — and  recalled  lines  of 
Jacopo  Sannazaro  which  I  often  repeat  to  myself  when 
I  think  of  the  Sea-City  as  an  abstraction — 


356  WILLIAM    SHARP 

"  0  d'ltalia  dolente 
Eterno    lumine 
Venezia  1  " 

And  that's  all  I  have  to  say  to-day!  .  .  .  except  to  add 
that  this  very  moment  there  has  come  into  my  mind  the 
rememl)rance  of  some  words  of  Montesquieu  I  read  last 
year  (in  the  Lettres  Persanes),  to  the  effect  (in  Eng- 
lish) that  "  altho'  one  had  seen  all  the  cities  of  the  world, 
there  might  still  be  a  surprise  in  store  for  him  in  Ven- 
ice,"— which  would  be  a  good  motto  for  your  book. 

Your  friend, 

Will. 

The  few  entries  in  William  Sharp's  Diary  for  1903 
begin  with  New  Year's  Day: 

Taobmina. 

Thursday,  1st  Jan.,  1903.  Yesterday  afternoon  I  end- 
ed literary  work  for  the  year,  at  p.  62  on  my  MS.  of 
"  The  King's  Eing "  with  the  sentence :  "  Flora  Mac- 
donald  saw  clearly  that  the  hearts  of  these  exiles  and 
New  Englanders  would  follow  a  shepherd  more  potent 
than  any  kind,  the  shepherd  called  Freedom,  who  for- 
ever keeps  his  flocks  of  hopes  and  ideals  on  the  hills  of 
the  human  heart."  To-day,  this  afternoon,  wrote  till  end 
of  p.  70.  In  the  evening  we  dined  with  Robert  Hichens 
at  the  Hotel  Timeo. 

Sat.  3rd.  Finished  "  The  King's  Ring."  Revised;  and 
sent  off  to  Mary  to  type.  We  lunched  at  the  Timeo. 
After  lunch  we  spent  an  hour  or  more  in  the  Greek 
Theatre  with  Hichens,  Then  we  walked  to  Miss  Valerie 
White's  villa  and  had  tea  with  her.  In  evening  '  turned 
in'  about  9  and  read  Bourget's  Calabria  Ricordi,  and 
Lenormant  on  Crotone  and  Pythagorus." 

Saturday,  9th  Jan. 

To  the  Editor  of  The  Pall  Mall  Magazine: 
Dear  Sir, 

I  have  written  a  story  somewhat  distinct  in  kind 
from   the   work   associated   with   my   name,    and   think 


LISMOEE  357 

it  is  one  that  should  appeal  to  a  far  larger  public  than 
most  of  my  writings  do:  for  it  deals  in  a  new  way  with 
a  subject  of  unpassing  interest,  the  personality  of  Flora 
Macdonald.  "  The  King's  Ring,"  however,  is  not  con- 
cerned with  the  hackneyed  Prince  Charlie  episode.  It  is, 
in  a  word,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  only  narrative  present- 
ment of  the  remarkable  but  almost  unknown  late-life 
experiences  of  Flora  Macdonald:  for  few  know  that, 
long  after  her  marriage,  she  went  with  her  husband  and 
some  of  her  family  and  settled  in  South  Carolina,  just 
before  the  outbreak  of  the  War  of  Independence:  how 
her  husband  was  captured  and  imprisoned:  how  two  of 
her  sons  in  the  Navy  were  lost  tragically  at  sea :  and  how 
she  herself  with  one  daughter  with  difficulty  evaded  in- 
terference, and  set  sail  from  a  southern  port  for  Scotland 
again,  and  on  that  voyage  was  wounded  in  an  encounter 
with  a  French  frigate.  True,  all  these  things  are  only 
indicated  in  "  The  King's  Ring,"  for  fundamentally  the 
story  is  a  love-story,  that  of  Flora  M.'s  beautiful  eldest 
daughter  Anne  and  Major  Macleod,  with  the  tragical 
rivalry  of  Alasdair  Stuart,  bearer  of  the  King's  Ring. 

Practically  the  facts  of  the  story  are  authentic :  save 
the  central  episode  of  Alasdair  Stuart,  which  is  of  my 
own  invention.  I  think  the  story  would  appeal  to  many 
not  only  in  Scotland  and  England  but  in  America. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

The  story  was  accepted  and  the  first  instalment  was 
printed  in  the  Pall  Mall  Magazine  in  May,  1904;  but  after 
its  appearance  the  author  did  not  care  sufficiently  for 
it  to  republish  it  in  book  form. 

The  Diary  continues: 

Sunday  4th.  Began  article  on  "  Thro'  Nelson's  Duchy  " 
commissioned  for  TJie  Pall  Mall  Magazine.  Received 
The  Monthly  Review  for  Jany.  with  the  Fiona  Macleod 
article,  "  The  Magic  Kingdoms  " :  the  Mercure  de  France 


358  WILLIAM    SHARP 

for  January:  and  proofs  from  the  Pall  Mall  Magazine 
of  my  articles  on  Scott  and  George  Eliot.  Among  sev- 
eral letters  one  from  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  who  says  (apropos 
of  F.  M.'s  "By  Sundown  Shores")  "she  always  can 
send  one  back  to  the  distance  which  is  all  the  future." 

Later,  after  a  walk  alone  I  looked  in  at  Villa  Bella 
Rocca  and  had  a  pleasant  chat  with  M,  et  Mme.  Grand- 
mont  about  Anatole  France,  Loti,  and  treatment  of  sea 
in  "  Pecheur  d'Islande,"  Bourget's  and  Lenormant's 
"  Calabria,"  etc.  Wrote  after  dinner  from  9  till  11 ;  and 
read  some  Bacchylides,  etc.  At  11.15  suddenly  some 
five  or  six  cocks  began  to  crow  vehemently:  and  about 
five  minutes  later  abruptly  stopped. 

Monday  5  th.  A  day  of  perfect  beauty.  Divinely  warm. 
In  morning  sat  out  on  Loggia  two  hours  or  so  working 
at  revision.  After  lunch  Hichens  came  for  me  and  we 
walked  down  to  Capo  San  Andrea  and  thence  took  a 
boat  with  two  men  (Francesco  and  his  brother)  across 
to  Capo  Schiso  (Naxos)  and  thence  walked  some  five  or 
six  miles  back.    Tea  at  H's.    A  divinely  lovely  sunset. 

Tuesday  6th.  As  beautiful  a  day  as  yesterday.  More 
could  be  said  of  no  day.  Worked  at  "  Thro'  Nelson's 
Duchy "  material,  and  wrote  a  letter.  A  walk  after 
lunch.  Then  again  a  little  work.  Had  a  charming  letter 
from  Joachim  Gasquet,  and  to  F.  M.  one  from  Stephen 
Gwynn  (with  his  "Today  and  Tomorrow  in  Ireland") 
— and  an  Academy  with  pleasant  para,  about  F.  M.  say- 
ing just  what  I  would  want  said  (with  an  allusion  to  a 
special  study  of  F.  M.  in  the  Harvard  Monthly,  by  the 
Editor). 

This  afternoon,  the  Festa  of  the  Epiphany,  more  great 
doings  with  the  delayed  Xmas  tree  treat  of  the  School- 
children of  Taormina.    Much  enjoyed  it. 

Thursday  8th.  Finished  the  P.  M.  Mag.  commissioned 
article  "  Thro'  Nelson's  Duchy  " — about  5,000  words — 
then  revised:  marked  with  directions  the  8  fine  Photos 
selected  by  A.  N.  H.  (Alex.  Nelson  Hood)  and  sent  off  to 
be  registered.  .  .  . 

After  dinner  wrote  one  or  two  letters  including  longish 


WILLIAM    SHARP 
From  a  photograph  taken  by  the  Hon.  Alex.  Nelson  Hood,  1903 


LISMORE  359 

one  of  literary  advice  to  Karl  Walter.    Read  some  ^s- 
chylus'  "  Eumenides." 

This  is  the  letter  in  question: 

Taobmina, 
Jan.,   1903. 

My  dear  Walter, 

...  In  some  respects  your  rendering  of  your  sonnet  is 
towards  improvement.  But  it  has  one  immediate  and 
therefore  fatal  flaw.  Since  the  days  of  Sophocles  it  has 
been  recognized  as  a  cardinal  and  imperative  law,  that  a 
great  emotion  (or  incident,  or  idea,  or  collective  act) 
must  not  be  linked  to  an  effective  image,  an  incongruous 
metaphor.  Perhaps  the  first  and  last  word  about  pas- 
sion (in  a  certain  sense  only,  of  course,  for  to  immortal 
things  there  is  no  mortal  narrowing  or  limiting  in  ex- 
pression) has  been  said  more  than  two  thousand  years 
ago  by  Sappho  and  to-day  by  George  Meredith.  "  The 
apple  on  the  topmost  bough  "...  all  that  lovely  frag- 
ment of  delicate  imperishable  beauty  remains  unique. 
And  I  know  nothing  nobler  than  Meredith's  "  Passion  is 
nolile  strength  on  fire."  .  .  .  But  turn  to  a  poet  you 
probably  know  well,  and  study  the  imagery  in  some  of  the 
Passion-sonnets  in  "  The  House  of  Life  "  of  Rossetti — 
of  Passion 

..."  creature  of  poignant  thirst 
And   exquisite   hunger  "... 

— the  splendid  sexual  diapason  in  the  sestet  of  the  sonnet 
celled  "  The  Kiss " — or,  again,  to  "  the  flame-winged 
harp-player." 

..."  thou  art  Passion  of  Love, 
The  mastering  music  walks  the  sunlit  sea." 

Perhaps  I  have  said  enough  to  illustrate  my  indication 
as  to  the  opening  metaphor  in  your  sonnet.  Apart  from 
the  incongruity  of  the  image,  it  has  no  logical  congruity 
with  the  collateral  idea  of  Fear.  The  sonnet  itself  turns 
on  a  fine  emotion  in  your  mind:  let  that  emotion  shape 
a  worthy  raiment  of  metaphor  and  haunting  cadence  of 
music,  not  as  the  metricist  desires  but  as  the  poet  au 
fond  compels. 


360  WILLIAM    SHARP 

Yes,  both  in  sonnet-writing  and  in  your  terza-rima  nar- 
rative (cultivate  elision  here,  also  fluent  terminals,  or  you 
will  find  the  English  prosody  jib  at  the  foreign  reins) 
you  will  find  G.  useful.  But  the  secret  law  of  rhythm  in 
a  moving  or  falling  wave,  in  the  cadence  of  wind,  in  the 
suspiration  of  a  distant  song,  in  running  water,  in  the 
murmur  of  leaves,  in  chord  confluent  upon  chord,  will 
teach  you  more — if  you  will  listen  long  enough  and  know 
what  you  listen  to. 

I  hope  I  have  not  discouraged  you.  I  mean  the  re- 
verse of  that. 

Your  friend, 

William  Sharp. 

I  add  here  a  letter  of  criticism  and  encouragement 
sent  by  F.  M.  to  another  young  writer,  in  the  previous 
summer,  to  the  nephew  of  William  Black  the  novelist: 

LoxDOX,  June,   1902. 

My  deae  Me.  Black, 

As  soon  as  possible  after  my  return  from  Brittany  I 
read  your  MS.  It  is  full  of  the  true  sentiment,  and  has 
often  charm  in  the  expression :  but  I  think  you  would  do 
well  to  aim  at  a  style  simpler  still,  freer  from  manner- 
isms, and  above  all  from  mannerisms  identified  with  the 
work  of  other  writers.  As  I  am  speaking  critically,  let 
me  say  frankly  that  I  have  found  your  beautiful  tale 
too  reminiscent  ever  and  again  of  an  accent,  a  note,  a 
vernacular  (too  reminiscent  even  in  names),  common  to 
much  that  I  have  written.  You  are  sympathetic  enough 
to  care  for  much  of  my  work,  and  loyal  enough  to  say 
so  with  generous  appreciation:  but  just  because  of  this 
you  should  be  on  guard  against  anything  in  my  style 
savouring  of  affectation  or  mannerism.  You  may  be  sure 
that  whatever  hold  my  writings  may  have  taken  on  the 
imagination  of  what  is  at  most  a  small  clan  has  been 
in  despite  of  and  not  because  of  mannerisms,  which  some- 
times make  for  atmosphere  and  versimilitude  and  some- 
times are  merely  obvious,  and  therefore  make  for  weak- 
ness   and    even    disillusion.      Be    on   guard,    therefore, 


LISMORE  3G1 

against  a  sympathy  which  would  lead  you  to  express 
yourself  in  any  other  way  than  you  yourself  feel  and 
in  other  terms  than  the  terms  of  our  own  mind.  Man- 
nerism is  often  the  colour  and  contour  of  a  writer's 
mind :  but  the  raiment  never  fits  even  the  original  wear- 
er, and  is  disastrous  for  the  l)orrower,  when  the  mental 
habit  of  mannerism  is  translated  into  the  mental  incerti- 
tude of  mannerisms.  You  have  so  natural  a  faculty 
and  so  eager  a  desire,  that  I  have  no  hesitation  in  urging 
you  to  devote  your  best  thought  and  time  and  effort  to 
a  worthy  achievement. 

But  no  work  of  the  imagination  has  any  value  if  it 
be  not  shaped  and  coloured  from  within.  Every  imagina- 
tive writer  must  take  his  offspring  to  the  Fountain  of 
Youth,  and  the  only  way  is  through  the  shadowy  and 
silent  avenues  of  one's  own  heart.  My  advice  to  you, 
then,  is,  not  to  refrain  from  steeping  your  thought  and 
imagination  in  what  is  near  to  your  heart  and  dream, 
but  to  see  that  your  vision  is  always  your  own  vision,  that 
your  utterance  is  always  your  own  utterance,  and  to  be 
content  with  no  beauty  and  no  charm  that  are  dependent 
on  another's  vision  of  beauty  and  another's  secret  of 
charm. 

Meanwhile,  I  can  advise  you  no  more  surely  than  to 
say,  write  as  simply,  almost  as  baldly,  above  all  as  natu- 
rally as  possible.  Sincerity,  which  is  the  last  triumph 
of  art,  is  also  its  foster-mother.  You  will  do  well,  I  feel 
sure:  and  among  your  readers  you  will  have  none  more 
interested  than 

Yours  Sincerely, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

To  another  friend  he  wrote  in  answer  to  a  question 
on  '  style  ' : 

"  Rhythmic  balance,  fluidity,  natural  motion,  sponta- 
neity, controlled  impetus,  proportion,  height  and  depth, 
shape  and  contour,  colour  and  atmosphere,  all  these  go 
to  every  living  sentence — but  there,  why  should  I  weary 


362  WILLIAM    SHARP 

you  with  uncertain  words  when  you  can  have  a  certainty 
of  instance  almost  any  time  where  you  are:  you  have 
but  to  look  at  a  wave  to  find  your  exemplar  for  the  ideal 
sentence.  All  I  have  spoken  of  is  there — and  it  is  alive — 
and  part  of  one  flawless  whole." 

From  W.  S.  to  Mrs.  Janvier. 

Taobmina, 
18th  Feb.,   1903. 

...  In  fact,  letters  are  now  my  worst  evil  to  contend 
against — for,  with  this  foreign  life  in  a  place  like  this, 
with  so  many  people  I  know,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  get 
anything  like  adequate  time  for  essential  work — and  still 
less  for  the  imaginative  leisure  I  need,  and  dreaming  out 
my  work — to  say  nothing  of  reading,  etc.  As  you  know, 
too,  I  have  continually  to  put  into  each  day  the  life  of 
two  persons — each  with  his  or  her  own  interests,  pre- 
occupations, work,  thoughts,  and  correspondence.  I  have 
really,  in  a  word,  quite  apart  from  my  own  temperament, 
to  live  at  exactly  double  the  rate  in  each  day  of  the 
most  active  and  preoccupied  persons.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  I  find  the  continuous  correspondence  of  '  two  per- 
sons '  not  only  a  growing  weariness,  but  a  terrible  strain 
and  indeed  perilous  handicaj)  on  time  and  energy  for 
work.  .  .  . 

A  little  later  William  Sharp  started  for  a  fortnight's 
trip  to  Greece  by  way  of  Calabria — Reggio,  Crotona, 
Taranto,  Brindisi  to  Corfu  and  Athens,  with  a  view  of 
gathering  impressions  for  the  working  out  of  his  pro- 
jected book  (by  W.  S.)  to  be  called  Greek  Backgrounds. 

En  route  he  wrote  to  me : 

23d  Jan.,  1903. 

"  Where  of  all  unlikely  places  do  you  think  this  is  writ- 
ten from?  Neither  Corfii  nor  Samothrace  nor  Ithaka 
nor  Zante,  nor  any  Greek  isle  betwixt  this  and  the  Pelo- 
ponnesus, but  in  TurkejM  .  .  .  i.e.,  in  Turkish  Albania, 
surrounded  by  turbaned  Turks,  fezzed  Albanians,  and 
picturesque  kilted  Epeirotes,  amid  some  of  the  loveliest 
scenery  in  the  world. 


LISMORE  363 

You  will  have  had  my  several  cards  en  route  and  last 
from  Taranto.  The  first  of  a  series  of  four  extraordi- 
nary pieces  of  almost  uncanny  good  fortune  befell  me  en 
route, — but  it  would  take  too  long  now  to  write  in  detail. 
Meanwhile  I  may  say  I  met  the  first  of  three  people  to 
whom  I  already  owe  much — and  who  helped  me  thro' 
every  l)other  at  Brindisi.  (He  is  a  foreign  Consul  in 
Greece.) 

(By  the  way,  the  engine  from  Taranto  to  Brindisi  was 
called  the  Agamemnon  and  the  steamer  to  Greece  the 
Poseidon — significant  names,  eh?) 

I  had  a  delightful  night's  rest  in  my  comfortable  cabin, 
and  woke  at  dawn  to  find  the  Poseidon  close  to  the  Al- 
banian shore,  and  under  the  superb  snow-crowned  Acro- 
kerannian  Mountains.  The  scenery  superb — with  Samo- 
thrace,  and  the  Isle  of  Ulysses,  etc.,  etc.,  seaward,  and 
the  beautiful  mountainous  shores  of  Corfu  (here  called 
Kepkuga  (Kerkyra)  on  the  S.W.  and  S.  There  was  a 
special  Consul-Deputation  on  board,  to  land  two,  and 
also  to  take  off  a  number  of  Turks,  Albanians,  and  Epei- 
rotes  for  Constantinople.  We  put  in  after  breakfast  at 
Eavri  Kagavri — a  Greco-Albanian  township  of  Turkey. 
The  scattered  oriental '  town  '  of  the  Forty  Saints  crowns 
a  long  ridge  at  a  considerable  height — the  harbour-town 
is  a  cluster  of  Turkish  houses  beside  an  extraordinary 
absolutely  deserted  set  of  gaunt  ruins.  Hundreds  of 
Albanians  and  Epeirotes,  Moslem  priests  and  two  Greek 
papas  (or  popes)  were  on  the  shore-roads,  with  several 
caravans  each  of  from  20  to  50  mules  and  horses.  Cos- 
tumes extraordinarily  picturesque,  especially  the  white- 
kilted  or  skirted  Albanian  mountaineers,  and  the  Larissa 
Turks.  We  were  3  hours — and  I  the  only  '  privileged ' 
person  to  get  thro'  with  the  consul.  We  took  many 
aboard — a  wonderful  crew,  from  a  wonderful  place,  the 
fairyland  of  my  Greek  resident  from  Paris — who  is  on 
his  way  to  spend  a  month  with  his  mother  in  Athens, 
and  has  asked  me  to  visit  him  at  his  house  there.  .  .  . 

Well,  the  Poseidon  swung  slowly  out  of  the  bay, — a 
lovely,    exciting,    strange,    unforgettable    morning — and 


364  WILLIAM    SHARP 

down  the  lovely  Albanian  coast — now  less  wild,  and 
wooded  and  craggy,  something  like  the  West  Highlands 
at  Loch  Fyne,  etc.,  but  higher  and  wilder.  When  off  a 
place  on  the  Turkish  Albanian  coast  called  Pothlakov 
(Rothroukon)  the  shaft  of  the  screw  suddenly  broke! 
The  engineer  told  the  captain  it  would  be  five  hours  at 
least  before  it  could  be  mended — adding,  a  little  later, 
that  the  harm  could  probably  not  be  rectified  here, 
and  that  we  should  have  to  ride  at  sea  till  a  relief 
boat  came  from  Corfu  or  Greece  to  take  off  the  passen- 
gers, etc. 

As  no  one  has  a  Turkish  passport,  no  one  can  get 
ashore  except  lucky  me,  with  my  influential  friend,  in  a 
Turkish  steam-pinnacle!  (It  is  so  beautiful,  so  warm, 
and  so  comfortable  on  the  Poseidon,  that,  in  a  sense,  I'm 
indifferent — and  would  rather  not  be  relieved  in  a  hurry.) 

(Later.)  Late  afternoon  on  board — still  no  sign  of 
getting  off.  No  Corfu  to-day,  now,  though  about  only 
an  hour's  sail  from  here!  Perhaps  tonight — or  a  relief 
steamer  may  come.  I'll  leave  this  now,  as  I  want  to  see 
all  I  can  in  the  sundown  light.  It  is  all  marvellously 
strange  and  lovely.  WJiat  a  heavenly  break-down !  What 
luck! 

Just  had  a  talk  with  another  passenger  stamping  with 
impatience.  I  didn't  soothe  him  by  remarking  I  hoped 
we  should  adrift  ashore  and  be  taken  prisoners  by  the 
Turks.  He  says  he  wants  to  get  on.  Absurd.  "  There's 
more  beauty  here  than  one  can  take-in  for  days  to  come  " 
I  said —  "  Damn  it,  sir,  what  have  I  got  to  do  with 
beauty," — he  asked  indignantly.  "  Not  much,  certainly,'^ 
I  answered  drily,  looking  him  over.  An  Italian  maestro 
is  on  board  on  his  way  to  Athens — now  playing  delight- 
fully in  the  salon.  A  Greek  guitarist  is  going  to  play 
and  sing  at  moonrise.  No  hills  in  the  world  more  beau- 
tiful in  shape  and  hue  and  endless  contours — with  gor- 
geous colours.  Albania  is  lost  Eden,  I  think.  Just 
heard  that  a  steamer  is  to  come  for  us  in  a  few  hours, 
or  less,  from  Corfu,  and  tow  us  into  Kerkyra  (the  town) 
— and  that  another  Austro-Lloyd  from  Trieste  or  Brin- 


LISMORE  365 

disi  will  take  us  on  to-morrow  sometime  from  Corfu  to 
Athens.  .  .  .  The  only  perfectly  happy  person  on  board. 

Yours, 
Will. 

Athexs,  29th  Jan. 

.  .  .  This  lovely  place  is  wonderful.  How  I  wish  you 
were  here  to  enjoy  it  too.  I  take  you  with  me  mentally 
wherever  I  go.  It  is  a  marvellous  home-coming  feeling 
I  have  here.  And  I  know  a  strange  stirring,  a  kind  of 
spiritual  rebirth. 

Athens,  Feb.   1st. 

.  .  .  Yesterday,  a  wonderful  day  at  Eleusis.  Towards 
sundown  drove  through  the  lovely  hill-valley  of  Daphne, 
with  its  beautifully  situated  isolated  ruin  of  the  Temple 
of  Aphrodite,  a  little  to  the  north  of  the  Sacred  Way 
of  the  Dionysiac  and  other  Processions  from  Aonai 
(Athenai)  to  the  Great  Fane  of  Eleusis.  I  have  never 
anywhere  seen  such  a  marvellous  splendour  of  living 
light  as  the  sundown  light,  especially  at  the  Temple  of 
Aphrodite  and  later  as  we  approached  Athens  and  saw 
it  lying  between  Lycabettos  and  the  Acropolis,  with  Hy- 
mettos  to  the  left  and  the  sea  to  the  far  right  and  snowy 
Pentelicos  behind.  The  most  radiant  wonder  of  light  I 
have  ever  seen. 

On  his  return  to  Taormina  he  received  the  following 
letter  from  Mr.  Hichens : 

St.  Stephens, 
Canterbury. 

My  deae  Sharp, 

.  .  .  Lately  I  recommended  a  very  clever  man,  half 
Spanish  and  half  German,  to  read  the  work  of  Fiona 
Macleod.  I  wondered  how  it  would  strike  one  who  had 
never  been  in  our  Northern  regions,  and  he  has  just  writ- 
ten to  me,  and  says :  "  I  am  reading  with  intense  delight 
Fiona  Macleod's  books  and  thank  you  very  much  for 
telling  me  to  get  them.  I  ordered  them  all  from  London 
and  cannot  tell  you  how  I  admire  the  thoughts,  the  style, 


366  WILLIAM    SHARP 

"  toute  la  couleur  locale."  They  are  books  I  shall  keep 
by  me  and  take  about  with  me  wherever  I  go."  I  sup- 
pose he  feels  they  are  fine,  as  I  feel  Tourgeney's  studies 
of  Russian  character  are  fine,  although  I  have  never 
lived  among  Russians.  I  shall  take  Anna  Karenina 
to  Italy  with  me  and  read  it  once  more.  At  Marseilles 
I  saw  the  "  Resurrection  "  acted.  It  was  very  interest- 
ing and  touching,  though  not  really  a  very  good  play. 
It  was  too  episodical.  In  London  it  is  an  immense  suc- 
cess. 

Well,  I  hope  you  will  really  come  to  winter  in  Africa. 
You  can  stay  at  either  the  Oasis  or  the  Royal  and  I 
think  we  should  be  very  happy.  We  must  often  go  out 
on  donkey-back  into  the  dunes  and  spend  our  day  there 
far  out  in  the  desert.  I  know  no,  physical  pleasure, — 
apart  from  all  the  accompanying  mental  pleasure, — to 
be  compared  with  that  which  comes  from  the  sun  and 
air  of  the  Sahara  and  the  enormous  spaces.  This  year 
I  was  more  enchanted  than  ever  before.  Even  exquisite 
Taormina  is  hum-drum  in  comparison.  I  expect  to  go 
to  Italy  very  early  in  May,  and  back  to  Africa  quite  at 
the  beginning  of  November.  Do  try  to  come  then  as 
November  is  a  magnificent  month.  Don't  reply.  You 
are  too  busy.  I  often  miss  the  walks,  and  your  company, 
which  wakes  up  my  mind  and  puts  the  bellows  to  my 
spark  of  imagination. 

Ever  yours, 

Robert  Hichens. 

I  can't  help  being  rather  sorry  that  you  won't  go  to 
Sicily  again  for  a  long  while.  I  always  feel  as  if  we 
all  had  a  sort  of  home  there.- 

For,  as  Mr.  Hichens  wrote  to  me,  "  I  still  think  Taor- 
mina the  most  exquisite  place  in  Europe.  On  a  fine 
morning  it  is  ineffably  lovely." 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

WINTER    IN    ATHENS 

Greek  Backgrounds 

During  the  following  summer  William  Sharp  saw 
George  Meredith  for  the  last  time.  Concerning  that  visit 
to  Box  Hill  he  wrote  to  a  friend : 

Monday,  June  22,  1903. 

...  I  am  so  glad  I  went  down  to  see  George  Mere- 
dith to-day.  It  was  goodbye,  I  fear,  though  the  end  may 
not  be  for  some  time  yet:  not  immediate,  for  he  has 
recovered  from  his  recent  severe  illness  and  painful  ac- 
cident, though  still  very  weak,  but  able  to  be  up,  and  to 
move  about  a  little. 

At  first  I  was  told  he  could  see  no  one,  but  when  he 
heard  who  the  caller  was  I  was  bidden  enter,  he  gave  me 
a  sweet  cordial  welcome,  but  was  frail  and  weak  and 
fallen  into  the  blind  alleys  that  so  often  await  the  most 
strenuous  and  vivid  lives.  But,  in  himself,  in  his  mind, 
there  is  no  change.  I  felt  it  was  goodbye,  and  when  I 
went,  I  think  he  felt  it  so  also.  When  he  goes  it  will  be 
the  passing  of  the  last  of  the  great  Victorians.  I  could 
have  (selfishly)  wished  that  he  had  known  a  certain 
secret:  but  it  is  better  not,  and  now  is  in  every  way  as 
undesirable  as  indeed  impossible.  If  there  is  in  truth,  as 
I  believe,  and  as  he  believes,  a  life  for  us  after  this,  he 
will  know  that  his  long-loving  and  admiring  younger 
comrade  has  also  striven  towards  the  hard  way  that  few 
can  reach.  What  I  did  tell  him  before  has  absolutely 
passed  from  his  mind :  had,  indeed,  never  taken  root,  and 
perhaps  I  had  nurtured  rather  than  denied  what  had 
taken  root.  If  in  some  ways  a  little  sad,  I  am  glad  other- 
wise. And  I  had  one  great  reward,  for  at  the  end  he 
spoke  in  a  way  he  might  not  otherwise  have  done,  and  in 

367 


368  WILLIAM    SHARP 

words  I  shall  never  forget.  I  liad  risen,  and  was  about 
to  lean  forward  and  take  his  hands  in  farewell,  to  pre- 
vent his  half-rising,  when  suddenly  he  exclaimed  "  Tell 
me  something  of  her — of  Fiona.  I  call  her  so  always,  and 
think  of  her  so,  to  myself.  Is  she  well?  Is  she  at  work? 
Is  she  true  to  her  work  and  her  ideal!    No,  that  I  know!  " 

It  was  then  he  said  the  following  words,  which  two 
minutes  later,  in  the  garden,  I  jotted  down  in  pencil  at 
once  lest  I  should  forget  even  a  single  word,  or  a  single 
change  in  the  sequence  of  words.  "  She  is  a  woman  of 
genius.  That  is  rare  ...  so  rare  anywhere,  anytime,  in 
women  or,  in  men.  Some  few  women  '  have  genius,'  but 
she  is  more  than  that.  Yes,  she  is  a  woman  of  genius: 
the  genius  too,  that  is  rarest,  that  drives  deep  thoughts 
before  it.  Tell  her  I  think  often  of  her,  and  of  the  deep 
thought  in  all  she  has  written  of  late.  Tell  her  I  hope 
great  things  of  her  yet.  And  now  .  .  .  we'll  go,  since  it 
must  be  so.  Goodbye,  my  dear  fellow,  and  God  bless 
you." 

Outside,  the  great  green  slope  of  Box  Hill  rose  against 
a  cloudless  sky,  filled  with  a  flowing  south  wind.  The 
swifts  and  swallows  were  flying  high.  In  the  beech  courts 
thrush  and  blackbird  called  continually,  along  the  hedge- 
rows the  wild-roses  hung.  But  an  infinite  sadness  was 
in  it  all.  A  prince  among  men  had  fallen  into  the  lonely 
and  dark  way. 

Goodbye  it  was  in  truth ;  but  it  was  the  older  poet  who 
recovered  hold  on  life  and  outlived  the  younger  by  four 
years. 

A  wet  spring,  and  a  still  damper  autumn  atfected  my 
husband  seriously;  and  while  we  were  visiting  Mrs. 
Glassford  Bell  in  Perthshire  he  became  so  ill  that  we 
went  to  Llandrindod  Wells  for  him  to  be  under  special 
treatment.    As  he  explained  to  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys : 

Llandrindod  Wells, 

My  deak  Ernest,  '^^pt..  1903. 

...  I  know  that  you  will  be  sorry  to  learn  that  things 
have  not  gone  well  with  me.     All  this  summer  I  have 


GEORGE    MEREDITH 
Fi'om  a  photograph  by  F.  Hollyer,  about  1 898 


WINTER    IN    ATHENS  369 

been  feeling  vaguely  unwell  and,  latterly,  losing  strength 
steadily.  .  .  .  However,  the  rigorous  treatment,  the  po- 
tent Saline  and  Sulphur  waters  and  baths,  the  not  less 
potent  and  marvellously  pure  and  regenerative  Llan- 
drindod  air — and  my  own  exceptional  vitality  and  re- 
cuperative powers — have  combined  to  work  a  wonderful 
change  for  the  better;  which  may  prove  to  be  more  than 
"  a  splendid  rally,"  tho'  I  know  I  must  not  be  too  san- 
guine. Fortunately,  the  eventuality  does  not  much  trou- 
ble me,  either  way:  I  have  lived,  and  am  content,  and 
it  is  only  for  what  I  don't  want  to  leave  undone  that 
the  sound  of  '  Farewell '  has  anything  deeply  perturbing. 

W.   S. 
And  later  to  Mrs.  Janvier : 

London,  Sept.  30,  1903. 

Thanks  for  your  loving  note.  But  you  are  not  to  worry 
yourself  about  me.  I'm  all  right,  and  as  cheerful  as  a 
lark — let  us  say  as  a  lark  with  a  rheumatic  wheeze  in  its 
little  song-box,  or  gout  in  its  little  off-claw.  .  .  .  Anyway, 
I'll  laugh  and  be  glad  and  take  life  as  I  find  it,  till  the 
end.  The  best  prayer  for  me  is  that  I  may  live  vividly 
till  "  Finis,"  and  work  up  to  the  last  hour.  .  .  . 

My  love  to  you  both,  and  know  me  ever  your  irrepres- 
sible, 

Billy. 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Alden  (Aug.  25th,  1903)  he  describes 
the  work  he  had  on  hand  at  the  moment,  and  the  book  he 
had  projected  and  hoped  to  write : 

".  .  .  in  the  Fall  Mall  Magazine  you  may  have  noticed 
a  series  of  topographical  papers  (with  as  much  or  more 
of  anecdotal  and  reminiscent  and  critical)  contributed, 
under  the  title  of  "  Literary  Geography,"  by  myself. 
The  first  three  were  commissioned  by  the  editor  to  see 
how  they  '  took.'  They  were  so  widely  liked,  and  those 
that  followed,  that  this  summer  he  commissioned  me  to 
write  a  fresh  series,  one  each  month  till  next  March.  Of 
these  none  has  been  more  appreciated  than  the  double 
article  on  the  Literary  Geography  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva. 


370  WILLIAM    SHARP 

Forthcoming  issues  are  The  English  Lake  Country,  Mere- 
dith, Thackery,  The  Thames,  etc.  In  the  current  issue  I 
deal  with  Stevenson. 

.  .  .  About  my  projected  Greek  book,  to  comprise 
Magna  Grecia  as  well,  i.  e.  Hellenic  Calabria  and  Sicily, 
etc.  ...  I  want  to  make  a  book  out  of  the  material  gath- 
ered, old  and  new,  and  to  go  freshly  all  over  the  ground. 
...  I  intend  to  call  it  Greek  Backgrounds  and  to  deal 
with  the  ancient  (recreated)  and  modern  backgrounds  of 
some  of  the  greatest  of  the  Greeks — as  they  were  and  are 
— as,  for  example,  of  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  Euripides, 
Empedocles,  Theocritus,  etc. — and  of  famous  ancient 
cities,  Sybaris,  Corinth,  etc.;  and  deal  with  the  home  or 
chief  habitat  or  famous  association.    For  instance : 

(1)  Calabria  (Crotan  and  Metapontum)  with  Pytha- 
goras. 

(2)  Eleusis  in  Greece,  |  with  life  and  death  of 
Syracuse  and  Gela  in  Sicily  )                  ^schylus. 

(3)  Colonos  Sophocles. 

(4)  Athens  etc.  with  Euripides. 

\   ,  ,r^.         ^  X  t   with  Pindar  etc.  etc. 

and  Acragas  (Girgente)  ) 

The  two  following  letters  were  acknowledgments  of 
birthday  greetings.  In  the  first  to  Mr.  Stedman  our  plans 
for  that  winter  are  described : 

The  Gbosvenob  Club, 

Oct.  2,  1903. 

My  dear  E.  C.  S., 

Two  days  ago,  on  Wednesday's  mail,  I  posted  a  letter 
to  reach  you,  I  hope,  on  the  morning  of  your  birthday — 
and  today,  to  my  very  real  joy,  I  safely  received  your 
long  and  delightful  letter.  It  has  been  a  true  medicine 
— for,  as  I  told  you,  I've  been  gravely  ill.  And  it  came 
just  at  the  right  moment,  and  warmed  my  heart  with 
its  true  affection. 

...  I  know  you'll  be  truly  glad  to  hear  that  the  tidings 
about  myself  can  be  more  and  more  modified  by  good 


WINTEE   IN   ATHENS  371 

news  from  my  physician, — a  man  in  whom  I  have  the  ut- 
most confidence  and  who  knows  every  weakness  as  well 
as  every  resource  and  reserve  of  strength  in  me,  and 
understands  my  temperament  and  nature  as  few  doctors 
do  understand  complex  personalities. 

He  said  to  me  today  "  You  look  as  if  you  were  well 
contented  with  the  world."  I  answered  "  Yes,  of  course  I 
am.  In  the  first  place  I'm  every  day  feeling  stronger, 
and  in  the  next,  and  for  this  particular  day,  I've  just  had 
a  letter  of  eight  written  pages  from  a  friend  whom  I  have 
ever  dearly  loved  and  whom  I  admire  not  less  than  I 
love."  He  knew  you  as  a  poet  as  well  as  the  subtlest  and 
finest  interpreter  of  modern  poetry — and  indeed  (tho'  I 
had  forgotten)  I  had  given  him  a  favourite  volume  and 
also  lent  your  Baltimore  addresses. 

When  I'm  once  more  in  the  land  of  Theocritus  (and 
oh  how  entrancing  it  is)  I'll  be  quite  strong  and  well 
again,  he  says.  Indeed  I'm  already  *  a  live  miracle ' ! 
We  sail  by  the  Orient  liner  "  Orizaba  "  on  the  23rd ;  reach 
Naples  (via  Gibraltar  and  Marseilles)  9  to  10  days  later; 
and  leave  by  the  local  mail-boat  same  evening  for  Mes- 
sina— arrive  there  about  8  on  Monday  morning — catch 
the  Syracuse  mail  about  10,  change  at  12  at  Giarre,  and 
ascend  Mt.  Etna  by  the  little  circular  line  to  Maletto 
about  3,000  ft.  high,  and  thence  drive  to  the  wonderful  old 
Castle  of  Maniace  to  stay  with  our  dear  friend  there,  the 
Duke  of  Bronte — our  third  or  fourth  visit  now.  We'll  be 
there  about  a  fortnight:  then  a  week  with  friends  at 
lovely  and  unique  Taormina:  and  then  sail  once  more, 
either  from  Messina  or  Naples  direct  to  the  Pira?us,  for 
Athens,  where  we  hope  to  spend  the  winter  and  spring. 

How  I  wish  you  were  to  companion  us.  In  Sicily,  I 
often  thought  of  you,  far  oif  Brother  of  Theocritus.  You 
would  so  delight  in  it  all,  the  Present  that  mirrors  the 
magical  Past ;  the  Past  that  penetrates  like  stars  the  pur- 
ple veils  of  the  Present. 

Yes,  I  know  well  how  sincere  is  all  you  say  as  to  the 
loving  friend  awaiting  me — awaiting  us — if  ever  we  cross 
the  Atlantic :  but  it  is  gladsome  to  hear  it  all  the  same. 


372  WILLIAM    SHARP 

All  affectionate  greetings  to  dear  Mrs.  Stedman,  a  true 
and  dear  friend, 

Ever,  dear  Stedman, 
Your  loving  friend, 

William  Sharp. 

13th  Sept.,  1903. 

Dear  Mrs.  Gilchrist, 

It  is  at  all  times  a  great  pleasure  to  hear  from  you, 
and  that  pleasure  is  enhanced  by  hearing  from  you  on 
my  l)irthday  and  by  your  kind  remembrance  of  the  oc- 
casion. .  .  . 

We  look  forward  to  Athens  greatly,  though  it  is  not 
(as  in  Elizabeth's  case)  my  first  visit  to  that  land  of  en- 
trancing associations  and  still  ever-present  beauty.  But 
as  one  grows  older,  one  the  more  recognises  that  '  cli- 
mate '  and  '  country '  belong  to  the  geography  of  the  soul 
rather  than  to  that  secondary  physical  geography  of 
which  we  hear  so  much.  The  winds  of  heaven,  the  dreary 
blast  of  the  wilderness,  the  airs  of  hope  and  peace,  the 
tragic  storms  and  cold  inclemencies — these  are  not  the 
property  of  our  North  or  South  or  East,  but  are  of  the 
climes  self-made  or  inherited  or  in  some  strange  way 
become  our  '  atmosphere.'  And  the  country  we  dream  of, 
that  we  long  for,  is  not  yet  reached  by  Cook  nor  even 
chartered  by  Baedeker.  You  and  yours  are  often  in  our 
thought.  In  true  friendship,  distance  means  no  more 
than  that  the  sweet  low  music  is  far  off:  but  it  is  there. 

Your  friend, 

William  Sharp. 

We  journeyed  by  sea  to  Naples.  Our  hopes  of  a  chat 
with  our  friends  the  Janviers  at  Marseilles  were  frus- 
trated by  a  violent  gale  we  encountered.  As  my  husband 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier  while  at  sea: 

R.M.S.   Orizaba. 
Oct.  31,  1903. 

It  seems  strange  to  write  to  you  on  the  Festival  of  Sam- 
hain — the  Celtic  Summer-end,  our  Scottish  Hallowe'en — 


WINTEK    IN    ATHENS  373 

here  on  these  stormy  waters  between  Sardinia  and  Italy. 
It  is  so  strong  a  gale,  and  the  air  is  so  inclement  and 
damp  that  it  is  a  little  difficult  to  realise  we  are  approach- 
ing the  shores  of  Italy.  But  wild  as  the  night  is  I  want 
to  send  you  a  line  on  it,  on  this  end  of  the  old  year,  this 
night  of  powers  and  thoughts  and  spiritual  dominion. 

It  was  a  disappointment  not  to  get  ashore  at  Marseilles 
— but  the  fierce  gale  (a  wild  mistral)  made  it  impossil)le. 
Indeed  the  steamer  couldn't  approach:  we  lay-to  for  3 
or  4  hours  behind  a  great  headland  some  4  or  5  miles  to 
S.  W.  of  the  city,  and  passengers  and  mails  had  to  be 
driven  along  the  shore  and  embarked  from  a  small  quarry 
pier.  .  .  .  We  had  a  very  stormy  and  disagreeable  pas- 
sage all  the  way  from  Plymouth  and  through  the  Bay. 
.  .  .  The  first  part  of  the  voyage  I  was  very  unwell, 
partly  from  an  annoying  heart  attack.  You  may  be  sure 
I  am  better  again,  or  I  could  not  have  withstood  the 
wild  gale  which  met  us  far  south  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons 
and  became  almost  a  hurricane  near  Marseilles.  But 
I  gloried  in  the  superb  magnificence  of  the  lashed  and 
tossed  sport  of  the  mistral,  as  we  went  before  it  like 
an  arrow  before  a  gigantic  bow. 

It  is  now  near  sunset  and  I  am  writing  under  the  shel- 
ter of  a  windsail  on  the  upper  deck,  blowing  ^great  guns  ' 
though  I  don't  think  we  are  in  for  more  than  a  passing 
gale.  But  for  every  reason  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  ashore, 
not  that  I  want  to  be  in  Naples,  which  I  like  least  of  any 
place  in  Italy,  but  to  get  on  to  Maniace  .  .  .  where  I  so 
much  love  to  be,  and  where  I  can  work  and  dream  so 
well.  .  .  . 

But  the  gale  increased  and  became  one  of  the  wildest 
we  had  ever  known,  as  William  reminded  me  later  when 
he  showed  me  an  unrhjnued  poem  he  had  composed — ex- 
actly as  it  stands — in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  the 
next  day,  in  Naples,  recalled  it  and  wrote  it  down.  It 
was  his  way  of  mental  escape  from  a  physical  condition 
which  induced  great  nervous  strain  or  fatigue,  to  create 
imaginatively  a  contrary  condition  and  environment,  and 


374  WILLIAM    SHARP 

so  to  identify  himself  with  it,  that  he  could  become  ob- 
livious to  surrounding  actualities.    This  is  the  poem : 

INVOCATION 

Play  me  a  lulling  tune,  O  Flute-Player  of  Sleep, 

Across  the  twilight  bloom  of  thy  purple  havens. 

Far  off  a  phantom  stag  on  the  moonyellow  highlands 

Ceases;   and  as  a  shadow,  wavers;   and  passes: 

So  let  Silence  seal  me  and  Darkness  gather,  Piper  of  Sleep. 

Play  me  a  lulling  chant,  0  Anthem-maker, 

Out  of  the  fall  of  lonely  seas,  and  the  wind's  sorrow: 

Behind  are  the  burning  glens  of  the  sunset-sky 

Where  like  blown  ghosts  the  sea-mews  wail  their  desolate  sea-dirges: 

Make  me  of  these  a  lulling  chant,  O  Anthem-maker. 

No — no — from  nets  of  silence  weave  me,  O  Siglier  of  Sleep, 

A  dusky  veil  ash-gray  as  the  moonpale  moth's  grey  wing; 

Of  thicket-stillness  woven,  and  sleep  of  grass,  and  thin  evanishing  air 

Where  the  tall  reed  spires  breathless — for  I  am  tired, 

O  Sigher  of  Sleep, 
And  long  for  thy  muffled  song  as  of  bells  on  the  wind,  and  the  wind's 

cry 
Falling,  and  the  dim  wastes  that  lie 
Beyond  the  last,  low,  dim,  oblivious  sigh. 

During  a  short  visit  to  Maniace  W.  S.  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Philpot: 

11th  Nov.,   19U3. 

...  At  this  season  of  the  year,  beautiful  and  unique 
in  its  appeal  and  singular  wild  fascination  as  it  is,  this 
place  does  not  suit  me  climatically,  being  for  one  thing 
too  high  between  2,000  and  3,000  ft.  and  also  too  much 
under  the  domination  of  Etna,  who  swings  vast  electric 
current,  and  tosses  thimder  charged  cloud-masses  to  and 
fro  like  a  Titan  acolyte  swinging  mighty  censers  at  the 
feet  of  the  Sun.  We  drive  to  Taormina  on  Tuesday  and 
the  divine  beauty  and  not  less  divinely  balmy  and  regen- 
erative climate — sitting  as  she  does  like  the  beautiful 
goddess  Falcone  worshipped  there  of  old,  perched  on  her 
orange  and  olive-clad  plateau,  hundreds  of  feet  above 
the  peacock-hued  Ionian  Sea,  with  one  hand  as  it  were 
reaching  back  to  Italy  (Calabria  ever  like  opal  or  ame- 
thyst to  the  North-east),  with  the  other  embracing  all  the 
lands  of  Etna  to  Syracuse  and  the  Hyblaean  Mount,  the 


WINTER   IN   ATHENS  375 

lands  of  Empedocles  and  Theocritus,  of  ^Eschylus  and 
Pindar,  of  Stesichorus  and  Simonides,  and  so  many  other 
great  names — and  with  her  face  ever  turned  across  the 
Ionian  Sea  to  that  ancient  Motherland  of  Hellas,  where 
once  your  soul  and  mine  surely  sojourned. 

We  shall  have  a  delightful  "  going  "  and  one  you  would 
enjoy  to  the  full.  .  .  .  Tomorrow  if  fine  and  radiant  we 
start  for  that  absolutely  unsurpassable  expedition  to  the 
great  orange  gardens  a  thousand  feet  lower  at  the  S.  W. 
end  of  the  Duchy.  We  first  drive  some  eight  miles  or  so 
through  wild  mountain  land  till  we  come  to  the  gorges 
of  the  Simeto  and  there  we  mount  our  horses  and  mules 
and  with  ample  escort  before  and  behind  ride  in  single 
file  for  about  an  hour  and  a  half.  Suddenly  we  come 
upon  one  of  the  greatest  orange  groves  in  Europe — 26,000 
trees  in  full  fruit,  an  estimated  crop  of  3,000,000 !  stretch- 
ing between  the  rushing  Simeto  and  great  cliffs.  Then 
once  more  to  the  saddle  and  back  a  different  way  to  bar- 
baric Bronte  and  thence  a  ten  mile  drive  back  along  the 
ancient  Greek  highway  from  Naxos  to  sacred  Enna.  And 
so,  for  the  moment,  a  revederla ! " 

After  a  delightful  week  at  Corfii  we  settled  in  Athens 
(at  Maison  Merlin)  for  four  months,  and  found  pleasant 
companionship  with  members  of  the  English  and  Ameri- 
can Schools  of  Archeology — of  which  Mr.  Carl  Bosen- 
quet  and  Prof.  Henry  Fowler  were  resi^ectively  the  heads 
— with  Dr.  Wilhelm  head  of  the  Austrian  School, — with 
Mr.  Bikelas  the  Greek  poet,  at  whose  house  we  met  sev- 
eral of  the  rising  Greek  men  of  letters,  and  other  resi- 
dents and  wanderers. 

The  winter  was  very  cold  and  at  first  my  husband  was 
very  ill — the  double  strain  of  his  life  seemed  to  consume 
him  like  a  flame.  At  the  New  Year  he  wrote  again  to 
Mrs.  Philpot : 

Maisox  Meblix, 

Deae  Friend,  Athexs. 

This  is  mainly  to  tell  you  that  I've  come  out  of  my  se- 
vere feverish  attack  with  erect  (if  draggled)  colours  and 


376  WILLIAM    SHARP 

hope  to  march  "  cock-a-hoopishly "  into  1904  and  even 
further  if  the  smiling  enigmatical  gods  permit!  .  .  .  To- 
day I  heard  a  sound  as  of  Pan  piping,  among  the  glens  on 
Hymettos,  whereon  my  eyes  rest  so  often  and  often  so 
long  dream.  Tomorrow  I'll  take  Gilbert  Murray's  line 
new  version  of  Hippolytus  or  Bacchae  as  my  pocket  com- 
panion to  the  Theatre  of  Dionysus  on  the  hither  side  of 
the  Acropolis ;  possibly  my  favourite  CEdipus  at  Kolono& 
and  read  sitting  on  Kolonos  itself  and  imagine  I  hear  on 
the  wind  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  lonely  ancient  lives,  se- 
rene thought-tranced  in  deathless  music.  And  in  the 
going  of  the  old  and  the  coming  of  the  new  year,  a  friend's 
thoughts  shall  fare  to  you  from  far  away  Athens.  .  .  . 
As  far  as  practicable  I  am  keeping  myself  to  the  closer 
study  of  the  literature  and  philosophy  and  ethical  con- 
cepts and  ideals  of  ancient  Hellas  and  of  mythology  in 
relation  thereto,  but  you  know  how  fascinating  and  per- 
turbing much  else  is,  from  sculpture  to  vase  paintings, 
from  Doric  and  Ionic  architecture  to  the  beauty  and  com- 
plex interest  of  the  almost  inexhaustible  field  of  ancient 
Greek  coins,  and  those  of  Graecia  Magna, —  And  then 
(both  Eheu  and  Evoe!)  I  have  so  much  else  to  do — be- 
sides "  Life  "  the  supreme  and  most  exciting  of  the  arts ! 

A  letter  of  New  Year  wishes  to  Dr.  Garnett  from 
W.  S. ;  and  a  copy  of  The  House  of  Usna  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ernest  Rhys  brought  the  following  acknowledgments: 

27  Tanza  Road,  Hampsteau, 

Jan.  8,   1904. 

My  dear  Shaep, 

Your  letter  has  given  me  infinite  pleasure.  .  .  . 

Athens  must  be  a  delighful  residence  at  this  time  of 
year,  especially  if  there  are  no  "  cold  snaps,"  against 
which  I  fear  that  the  modem  Athenians  are  no  better 
provided  than  their  ancestors  were.  There  is  a  very 
amusing  letter  in  Alisplom's  epistles,  describing  the  suf- 
ferings of  a  poor  parasite  in  a  hard  winter.  You  seem 
to  have  very  charming  society.    The  name  of  Bikelas  i& 


WINTER    IN    ATHENS  377 

well  known  to  me,  but  I  am  not  much  versed  in  Roman 
literature.  The  history  of  Paparrhegopoulos  has  been  a 
good  deal  noticed  here  of  late.  It  seems  to  he  a  really 
classical  work.  By  producing  such  the  Greeks  will  indi- 
cate their  claim  to  a  high  position  in  the  European  fam- 
ily, until  the  time  has  come  for  action,  which  apparently 
has  not  come  yet. 

I  quite  agree  in  the  conclusion  at  which  they  seem  to 
have  arrived  that  it  is  better  to  have  the  Turks  in  Con- 
stantinople than  the  Bulgarians,  much  more  the  Rus- 
sians. If  either  of  their  victims  once  occupy  it,  the  right- 
ful possessors  will  be  forever  excluded. 

I  have  not  wanted  for  literary  occupations — one  a  little 
work  of  fancy  which  I  am  about  finishing,  and  of  which 
you  will  hear  more.  Then  I  have  a  story  to  translate 
from  the  Portuguese,  published  in  the  Venture;  an  edi- 
tion of  Browning's  preface  to  Shelley's  forged  letters, 
with  an  introduction  by  me,  and  the  second  volume  of 
English  literature  in  conjunction  w^ith  Gosse,  which  has 
been  these  six  weeks  ready  for  issue  but  delayed  from 
time  to  time  to  suit  the  Americans.  It  is  now  positively 
announced  for  the  31st. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Sharp,  who  I  hope  finds 
Attica  entirely  to  her  taste, 

I  am,  dear  Sharp, 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

R.  Gaknett. 

Derwen, 
Hermitage  Lane,  N.  W., 

Jan.    28,    19U4. 

Dear  Miss  Fiona  Macleod, 

Most  delightful  of  all  New  Year's  gifts  is  a  really  beau- 
tiful book;  and  we  thank  you, — both  of  us, — for  sending 
us  your  most  characteristic  heroic-lyric  tragedy,  The 
House  of  TJsna.  We  were  fortunate  in  being  allowed  to 
see  it  performed — how  long  ago  can  it  have  been? — at 
the  Stage  Society's  instance.  .  .  .  The  ''  Psychic  Drama," 
as  you  conceive  it,  opens  the  door  to  a  lost  world  of  Na- 
ture and  the  emotions  of  Nature  in  the  imagination.    No 


378  WILLIAM    SHARP 

doubt  it  is  a  frightfully  difficult  thing  to  attire  these  emo- 
tions in  fair  and  credible  human  dress,  one  that  seemed 
impossible  even,  but  the  "  House  of  Usna  "  may  serve  as 
a  test  of  how  far  those  who  have  the  key  to  these  emo- 
tions can  hope  to  fit  it  to  old  or  new-old  dramatic  forms. 
Your  '  Foreword '  is  suggestive  enough  to  be  treated  sep- 
arately; but  we  write  from  a  sick  house,  and  in  such 
states,  it  is  harder  to  think  of  critical  things  than  of  pure 
imaginative  ones.  For  these  last,  as  they  rise  out  of  your 
magic  '  House,'  and  haunt  the  ear,  we  owe  you  very  whole 
and  ample  thanks. 

With  many  wishes  for  health  and  spirit  in  this  year 
of  1904, 

We  are,  yours  most  truly, 

Gr.  AND  E.  Rhys. 

With  Spring  sunshine  and  warmth  my  husband 
regained  a  degree  of  strength,  and  it  was  his  chief 
pleasure  to  take  long  rambles  on  the  neighbouring  hills 
alone,  or  with  the  young  American  archeologist,  Mrs. 
Roselle  L.  Shields,  a  tireless  walker.  We  made  some 
interesting  expeditions  to  Tyrens,  Mycenae,  Corinth,  Del- 
phi, etc.  and  from  '  OlymiDia  in  Elis '  he  wrote  to  a 
friend : 

"  How  you  would  love  this  radiant  heat,  this  vast  soli- 
tude of  ruins,  the  millions  of  flowers  and  dense  daisied 
grass.  This  fragment  of  vast  Olympia  is  the  most  an- 
cient Greek  temple  extant.  It  lies  at  the  base  of  the  Hill 
of  Kronos,  of  which  the  lowest  pines  are  seen  to  the  right 
and  overlooks  the  whole  valley  of  the  Alpheios.  .  .  . 

And  the  millions  of  flowers.  They  are  almost  incred- 
ible in  number  and  density.  The  ground  is  often  white 
with  thick  snow  of  daisies.  Wild  plums,  pears,  cherries, 
etc.  The  radiant  and  glowing  heat  is  a  joy.  I  am  sad  to 
think  that  this  day  week  beautiful  Greece  will  be  out  of 
sight." 

Later  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Rhys: 


AVINTER    IN    ATHENS  379 

Maiso.v  Merlix,  Athens, 
Friday,  26th  Feb.,   19U4. 

My  dear  Ernest, 

.  .  .  Yesterday  I  had  a  lovely  break  from  work,  high 
up  on  the  beautiful  bracing  dwarf-pine  clad  slopes  of 
Pentelicos,  above  Kephisia,  the  ancient  deme  of  Menan- 
der — and  then  across  the  country  behind  Hymettos,  the 
country  of  Demosthenes,  and  so  back  by  the  High  Con- 
vent of  St.  John  the  Hunter,  on  the  north  spur  of  the  Hy- 
mettian  range,  and  the  site  of  ancient  Gargettos,  the 
place  of  Epicurus'  birth  and  boyhood.  At  sundown  I  was 
at  Heracleion,  some  three  or  four  miles  from  Athens — 
and  the  city  was  like  pale  gold  out  of  which  peaked  Lyca- 
bettos  rose  like  a  purple  sapphire.  The  sky  beyond, 
above  Salamis,  was  all  grass-green  and  mauve.  A  thun- 
der-cloud lay  on  extreme  Hymettos,  rising  from  Mara- 
thon :  and  three  rainbows  lay  along  the  violet  dusk  of  the 
great  hill-range.  .  .  . 

We  intend  to  spend  April  in  France,  mostly  in  South- 
em  Provence,  which  we  love  so  well,  and  where  we  have 
dear  French  friends. 

I  am  apparently  well  and  strong  again,  hard  at  work, 
hard  at  pleasure,  hard  at  life,  as  before,  and  generally 
once  more  full  of  hope  and  energy. 

Love  to  you  both,  dear  friends  and  a  sunbeam  to  little 
Stella. 

Ever  yours. 

Will. 

On  leaving  Greece  we  loitered  at  Hyeres  in  the  month 
of  cherry-blossoms,  and  moved  slowly  northwards 
through  Nimes  to  the  fantastic  neighbourhood  of  Le  Puy, 
with  its  curious  hill-set  town  and  churches  perched  on 
pinnacles  of  conical  rock. 

From  Le  Puy  W.  S.  wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier: 

18th  April,  1904.  .  .  .  Wliat  has  most  impressed  my 
imagination  in  this  region  is  what  I  saw  today  outside  of 
fantastic  Le  Puy — namely  at  the  magnificent  old  feudal 


380  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

rock-Chateau  fortress  of  Polignac,  erected  on  the  site  of 
the  famous  Temple  of  Apollo  (raised  here  by  the  Romans 
on  the  still  earlier  site  of  a  Druidic  Temple  to  the  Celtic 
Sun  God).  I  looked  down  the  mysterious  hollow  of  the 
ancient  oracle  of  Apollo,  and  realised  how  deep  a  hold 
even  in  the  France  of  today  is  maintained  by  the  ancient 
Pagan  faith.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE    WINGED    DESTINY 

Literary  Geography 

Two  important  events  of  1904  to  William  Sharp  were 
the  publication  of  The  Winged  Destiny,  at  midsummer, 
by  Messrs.  Chapman  &  Hall ;  and  of  his  Literary  Geog- 
raphy in  October. 

In  the  Dedication  to  Dr.  John  Goodchild  of  The 
Winged  Destiny  (the  title  of  The  Magic  Kingdoms  was 
discarded),  the  author  set  forth  'her'  intention: 

"  In  this  book  I  have  dealt — as  I  hope  in  all  I  write — 
only  with  things  among  which  my  thought  has  moved, 
searching,  remembering,  examining,  sometimes  dream- 
ing. ..  . 

It  is  not  the  night-winds  in  sad  hearts  only  that  I  hear, 
or  the  sighing  of  vain  fatalities :  but,  often  rather,  of  an 
Emotion  akin  to  that  mysterious  Sorrow  of  Eternity  in 
love  with  tears,  of  which  Blake  speaks  in  Vala.  It  is 
at  times,  at  least  I  feel  it  so,  because  Beauty  is  more 
beautiful  there.  It  is  the  twilight  hour  in  the  heart,  as 
Joy  is  the  heart's  morning. 

Perhaps  I  love  best  the  music  that  leads  one  into  the 
moonlit  coverts  of  dreams,  and  old  silence,  and  unawak- 
ening  peace.  But  Music,  like  the  rose  of  the  Greeks,  is 
'  the  thirty  petalled  one '  and  every  leaf  is  the  gate  of  an 
equal  excellence.  The  fragrance  of  all  is  Joy,  the  beauty 
of  all  is  Sorrow:  but  the  Rose  is  one — Rosa  Sempiterna, 
the  Rose  of  Life.  As  to  the  past,  it  is  because  of  what  is 
there,  that  I  look  back:  not  because  I  do  not  see  what  is 
here  today,  or  may  be  here  tomorrow.  It  is  because  of 
what  is  to  be  gained  that  I  look  back:  of  what  is  su- 
premely worth  knowing  there,  of  knowing  intimately :  of 

381 


382  WILLIAM    SHARP 

what  is  supremely  worth  remembering,  of  remembering 
constantly:  not  only  as  an  exile  dreaming  of  the  land  left 
behind,  but  as  one  travelling  in  narrow  defiles  who  looks 
back  for  familiar  fires  on  the  hills,  or  upward  to  the  fa- 
miliar stars  where  is  surety.  In  truth  is  not  all  creative" 
art  remembrance:  is  not  the  spirit  of  ideal  art  the  re- 
capture of  what  has  gone  away  from  the  world,  that  by 
an  imperious  spiritual  law  is  forever  withdrawing  to 
come  again  newly." 

To  a  friend  W.  S.  wrote : 

It  is  a  happiness  to  me  to  know  that  you  feel  so 
deeply  the  beauty  that  has  been  so  humbly  and  eagerly 
and  often  despairingly  sought,  and  that  in  some  dim 
measure,  at  least,  is  held  here  as  a  shaken  image  in 
troubled  waters.  It  it  a  long  long  road,  the  road  of  art 
.  .  .  and  those  who  serve  with  passion  and  longing  and 
unceasing  labour  of  inward  thought  and  outward  craft 
are  the  only  votaries  who  truly  know  what  long  and  devi- 
ous roads  must  be  taken,  how  many  pitfalls  have  to  be 
avoided  or  escaped  from,  how  many  desires  have  to  be 
foregone,  how  many  hopes  have  to  be  crucified  in  slow 
death  or  more  mercifully  be  lost  by  the  way,  before  one 
can  stand  at  last  on  "  the  yellow  banks  where  the  west 
wind  blows,"  and  see,  beyond,  the  imperishable  flowers, 
and  hear  the  immortal  voices. 

A  thousand  perils  guard  the  long  road.  And  when 
the  secret  gardens  are  reached,  there  is  that  other  deadly 
peril  of  which  Fiona  has  written  in  "The  Lynn  of 
Dreams."  And,  yet  again,  there  is  that  mysterious  des- 
tiny, that  may  never  come,  or  may  come  to  men  but  once, 
or  may  come  and  not  go,  of  which  I  wrote  to  you  some 
days  ago,  quoting  from  Fiona's  latest  writing:  that  des- 
tiny which  puts  dust  upon  dreams,  and  silence  upon  sweet 
airs,  and  stills  songs,  and  makes  the  hand  idle,  and  the 
spirit  as  foam  upon  the  sea. 

-For  the  gods  are  jealous,  0  jealous  and  remorseless 
beyond  all  words  to  tell.    And  there  is  so  little  time  at 


THE   WINGED   DESTINY  383 

the  best  .  .  .  and  the  little  gain,  the  little  frail  crown,  is 
so  apt  to  be  gained  too  late  for  the  tired  votary  to  care, 
or  to  do  more  than  lie  down  saying  '  I  have  striven,  and  I 
am  glad,  and  now  it  is  over,  and  I  am  glad ! ' 

A  letter  of  appreciation  to  the  author  from  an  unknown 
Gaelic  correspondent  contained  this  beautiful  wish: 

"  May  you  walk  by  the  waters  of  Life,  and  may  you 
rest  by  Still  Waters,  and  may  you  know  the  mystery  of 
God." 

To  Mrs.  Helen  Bartlett  Bridgman,  "  Fiona  "  wrote  in 
acknowledgment  of  a  letter,  and  of  a  sympathetic,  printed 
appreciation  of  The  Winged  Destiny: 

My  dear  Friend, 

(For  if  deep  sympathy  and  understanding  do  not  con- 
stitute friendship,  what  does?)  It  would  be  strange  in- 
deed if  I  did  not  wish  to  write  to  you  after  what  Mr. 
Mosher  has  told  me,  and  after  perusal  of  what  you  have 
written  concerning  what  I  have  tried  to  do  with  my  pen. 
There  are  few  things  so  helpful,  perhaps  none  so  pleasant 
to  a  writer  in  love  with  his  or  her  work  and  the  ideals 
which  are  its  source,  than  the  swift  understanding  and 
sympathy  of  strangers.  So  much  of  my  work  is  aside 
from  the  general  temper  and  taste,  and  not  only  in  its 
ideals  but  in  its  '  atmosphere,'  indeed  even  in  its  writer's 
methods  and  manner,  that  I  have  to  be  content  (as  I 
gladly  am  content)  to  let  the  wind  that  blows  through 
minds  and  hearts  carry  the  seed  whithersoever  it  may 
perchance  take  root,  and  this  with  tbe  knowledge  that  the 
resting  places  must  almost  of  necessity,  as  things  are, 
be  few  and  far  between.  But  it  is  not  number  that  counts, 
and,  as  I  say,  I  am  well  content — would  be  content  were 
my  readers  far  fewer  than  they  are.  It  seems  enough  to 
me  that  one  should  do  one's  best  in  a  careful  beauty  and 
in  the  things  of  the  spirit.  It  is  enough  to  be  a  torch- 
bearer,  whether  the  flame  be  a  small  and  brief  light  or  a 
beacon — it  is  to  take  over  and  to  tend  and  to  hand  on  the 


384  WILLIAM    SHARP 

fire  that  matters.  As  I  say  in  my  very  shortly  forth- 
coming new  book,  The  Winged  Destiny,  I  desire  to  be  of 
the  horizon-makers;  if  I  can  be  that,  however  humbly, 
I  am  glad  indeed.  This  would  be  so  with  anyone,  I 
think,  feeling  thus.  To  me  outside  sympathy  means  per- 
haps more;  for  I  stand  more  isolated  than  most  writers 
do,  partly  by  my  will,  partly  by  circumstances  as  potent 
and  sometimes  more  potent.  It  is  not  only  that  I  am 
devoid  of  the  desire  of  publicity,  of  personal  repute,  and 
that  nothing  of  advantage  therefrom  has  the  slightest 
appeal  to  me  (though,  alas,  both  health  and  private  cir- 
cumstances make  my  well-being  to  a  large  extent  de- 
pendent on  what  my  work  brings  me),  but  that  I  am  men- 
tally so  constituted  that  I  should  be  silenced  by  what  so 
many  are  naturally  and  often  rightly  eager  for  and  that 
so  many  seek  foolishly  or  unworthily.  In  this  respect 
I  am  like  the  mavis  of  the  woods,  that  sings  full-heartedly 
in  the  morning  shadow  or  evening  twilight  in  secret 
places,  but  will  be  duml)  and  lost  in  the  general  air  of 
noon  and  where  many  are  gathered  in  the  frequented 
open  to  see  and  hear. 

It  is  for  these,  and  other  not  less  imperative  private 
reasons,  why  I  am  known  personally  to  so  very  few  of 
my  fellow-writers :  and  why  in  private  circles  the  sub- 
ject is  not  one  that  occurs.  I  cannot  explain,  though  not 
from  reluctance  or  perversity  or  any  foolish  and  need- 
less mystery.  The  few  who  do  not  know  me,  as  you  know 
me,  but  with  added  intimacy,  are  loyal  in  safe-guarding 
my  wishes  and  my  privacy.  That  explains  why  I  refuse 
all  editorial  and  other  requests  of  "  interviews,"  "  photo- 
graphs," "  personal  articles  "  and  the  like.  In  a  word,  I 
am  blind  to  all  the  obvious  advantages  that  would  accrue 
from  my  '  entering  the  arena '  as  others  do.  I  have  all 
that  frequently  borne  in  upon  me.  But  still  less  so  do  I 
ignore  what  would  happen  to  my  work,  to  its  quality  and 
spirit,  to  myself,  if  I  yielded.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  do 
not  think  I  am.  I  am  content  to  do  my  best,  as  the  spirit 
moves  me,  and  as  my  sense  of  beauty  compels  me;  and 
if,  with  that,  I  can  also  make  some  often  much-needed 


THE   WINGED   DESTINY  385 

money,  enough  for  the  need  as  it  arises ;  and,  further,  can 
win  the  sympathy  and  deep  appreciation  of  the  few  inti- 
mate and  the  now  many  unknown  friends  whom,  to  my 
great  gladness  and  pride,  I  have  gained,  then,  indeed,  I 
can  surely  contentedly  let  wider  "fame"  (of  all  idle 
things  the  idlest,  when  it  is,  as  it  commonly  is,  the  mere 
lip-repute  of  the  curious  and  the  shallow)  go  by,  and  be 
indifferent  to  the  lapse  of  possible  but  superfluous 
greater  material  gain.  .  .  ." 

Dr.  Goodchild,  after  a  first  acknowledgment  of  the 
dedication,  again  wrote  to  F.  M. : 

Author's  Club. 

Dear  Friend,  J^^y^  i^o^- 

.  .  .  Yesterday  I  read  your  Preface  to  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  afterwards  a  lady  (a  clever  woman  I  believe) 
came  into  the  room.  I  had  never  met  her  before,  and 
she  had  never  read  anything  of  yours,  but  she  picked 
up  the  book  and  asked  what  it  was.  "  Just  read  the 
introduction  "  said  my  friend.  The  reader  had  an  ex- 
pressive face,  and  I  wish  you  had  seen  it.  "  But  this  is 
something  quite  new.  I  never  read  anything  like  it  be- 
fore "  she  said  as  she  finished :  and  I  fancy  that  many 
will  do  likewise. 

A  woman  said  in  my  hearing  not  long  ago,  of  one  of 
your  poems,  "  I  could  not  put  out  my  heart  for  daws  to 
peck  at "  and  I  said  "  only  the  Eagle  could  do  that,  and 
not  only  daws,  but  blackbirds  of  all  kinds  will  come  to 
do  that,  and  when  the  Eagles  hear  the  call  of  their  mates, 
there  will  be  such  slaughter  of  carrion  crows  as  the 
World  has  not  seen  yet." 

J.  A.  G. 

A  few  days  later  William  described  to  a  friend  the 
events  of 

.  .  .  one  of  the  loveliest  days  of  the  year,  with  the 
most  luminous  atmosphere  I  have  seen  in  England — the 
afternoon  and  evening  divinely  serene  and  beautiful. 

I  had  a  pleasant  visit  to  Bath,  and  particularly  enjoyed 


386  WILLIAM    SHARP 

the  long  day  spent  yesterday  at  Glastonbury  and  neigh- 
bourhood, and  the  glowing  warmth  and  wonderful  radi- 
ance. 

As  usual  one  or  two  strange  things  happened  in  con- 
nection with  Dr.  G.  We  went  across  the  ancient  "  Sal- 
mon "  of  St.  Bride,  which  stretches  below  the  hill  known 
as  "  Weary- All "  (a  corruption  of  Uriel,  the  Angel  of  the 
Sun),  and  about  a  mile  or  less  westward  came  upon  the 
narrow  water  of  the  ancient  '  Burgh.'  Near  here  is  a 
very  old  Thorn  held  in  great  respect.  .  .  . 

He  put  me  (unknowing)  to  a  singular  test.  He  had 
hoped  with  especial  and  deep  hope  that  in  some  signifi- 
cant way  I  would  write  or  utter  the  word  "  Joy  "  on  this 
1st  day  of  August  (the  first  three  weeks  of  vital  import 
to  many,  and  apparently  for  myself  too) — and  also  to  see 
if  a  certain  spiritual  influence  would  reach  me.  Well, 
later  in  the  day  (for  he  could  not  prompt  or  suggest,  and 
had  to  await  occurrence)  we  went  into  the  lovely  grounds 
of  the  ancient  ruined  Abbey,  one  of  the  loveliest  things 
in  England  I  think.  I  became  restless  and  left  him,  and 
went  and  lay  down  behind  an  angle  of  the  East  end, 
under  the  tree.  I  smoked,  and  then  rested  idly,  and  then 
began  thinking  of  some  correspondence  I  had  forgotten. 
Suddenly  I  turned  on  my  right  side,  stared  at  the  broken 
stone  of  the  angle,  and  felt  vaguely  moved  in  some  way. 
Abruptly  and  unpremeditatedly  I  wrote  down  three  enig- 
matic and  disconnected  lines.  I  was  looking  curiously  at 
the  third  when  I  saw  Dr.  G.  approach. 

"  Can  you  make  anything  out  of  that,"  I  said — "  I've 
just  written  it,  I  don't  know  why."    This  is  the  triad: 

"  From  the  Silence  of  Time,  Time's  Silence  borrow. 
In  the  heart  of  To-day  is  the  word  of  To-morrow. 
The  Builders  of  Joy  are  the  Children  of  Sorrow." 


To  Mr.  Stedman  W.  S.  announced  our  plans  for  the 
coming  winter : 

-r^  T^  Aug.  29,   1904. 

Dear  Poet, 

This  is  not  an  advance  birthday  letter,  as  you  may 
think !    It  is  to  convey  tidings  of  much  import  to  my  wife 


THE   WINGED   DESTINY  387 

and  myself,  and  I  hope  of  pleasure  to  you  and  other 
friends  over-sea — namely  that  this  late  autumn  we  are 
going  to  pay  a  brief  visit  to  New  York. 

It  is  our  intention  to  spend  January,  February,  and 
March  in  Rome — which  for  me  is  the  City  of  Cities.  But 
we  are  going  to  it  via  New  York.  In  a  word,  we  intend  to 
leave  England  somewhere  between  23rd  and  26th  of  Octo- 
ber, according  as  steamers  and  our  needs  fit  it.  Then 
after  six  weeks  or  so  in  New  York,  we  intend  to  sail  di- 
rect to  the  Mediterranean  by  one  of  the  Hamburg- Ameri- 
can or  North-German  Lloyd  Special  Mediterranean  line, 
sailing  to  Genoa  and  Naples.  ... 

I  have  been  very  busy  of  late,  and  for  one  thing  have 
been  occupied  with  collecting  and  revising  the  literary 
studies  of  some  years  past — and  much  else  of  which  I'll 
tell  you  when  we  meet.  My  Literary  Geography,  which 
has  been  running  serially  in  the  Pall  Mall  Magazine 
for  the  last  14  or  15  months  will  be  out  in  book-form 
in  October.  My  wife's  recently  published  little  book 
on  Rembrandt  has  had  a  good  reception,  I  am  very  glad 
to  say. 

With  all  affectionate  greetings  to  you  both,  ever.  Dear 
Stedman, 

Affectionately  your  friend, 

William  Sharp. 

Before  we  started  for  New  York  Literary  Geography 
(by  W.  S.)  was  published.  According  to  the  critic  in 
The  World: 

"  It  was  a  characteristically  original  idea  of  the  author 
to  combine  descriptions  of  certain  localities  with  criti- 
cisms and  appreciations  of  those  famous  writers  who  had 
identified  themselves  therewith.  It  gives  one  a  fresher 
and  keener  insight,  for  instance,  into  Mr.  George  Mere- 
dith's poems  to  know  how  much  they  reveal  of  the  lovely 
country  in  which  he  lives,  and  how  many  of  his  exquisite 
similes  are  drawn  from  observation  of  the  birds  and 
beasts  and  plants  which  he  sees  daily  around  his  home 
under  the  shadow  of  Box  Hill.    "  The  Country  of  Steven- 


388  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

son,"  "  Dickens-Land,"  "  Scott-Land,"  "  The  Country  of 
George  Eliot,"  "  Thackeray-Land,"  "  The  Bronte  Coun- 
try," "  The  Carlyle  Country,"  and  "  Aylwin-Land  "  are 
all  both  delightful  and  instructive,  full  of  poetic  descrip- 
tion, sound  criticism,  and  brilliant  flashes  of  wit;  and 
not  less  so  are  the  chapters  on  the  "  literary  geography  " 
of  the  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore,  the  English 
Lakes,  with  all  their  associations  with  Wordsworth  and 
his  brother  jjoets,  and  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  which  might 
have  been  called  Voltaire-Land  were  it  not  that  so  many 
other  famous  personalities  and  authors  are  identified 
with  Geneva  and  its  surroundings  that  the  solitary  dis- 
tinction might  seem  invidious." 

The  book  was  dedicated  to  the  author's  friend  of  early 
days,  Mr.  George  Halkett  (then  Editor  of  The  Pall  Mall 
Gazette)  with  the  reminder  that 

"  More  years  ago  now  than  either  of  us  cares  to  recall, 
we  were  both,  in  the  same  dismal  autumn  for  us,  sent 
wandering  from  our  native  lands  in  Scotland  to  the  end 
of  the  earth.  I  remember  that  each  commiserated  the 
other  because  of  that  doctor's  doom  in  which  we  both, 
being  young  and  foolish,  believed.  Since  then  we  have 
sailed  many  seas  and  traversed  many  lands,  and  I,  at 
least,  have  the  wayfaring  fever  too  strong  upon  me  ever 
to  be  cured  now." 

The  critic  in  the  Daily  Chronicle  explained  that  the 
"  book  is  all  an  affair  of  temperament,  and  the  only  thing 
which  really  matters  is  that  Mr.  Sharp  has-made  excellent 
stuff  out  of  his  impressions.  .  .  .  For  instance,  the  first 
time  he  saw  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  not  as  it  should 
have  been,  in  the  land  of  Alan  Breck ;  it  was  at  Waterloo 
Station.  Is  the  literary  geographer  abashed  by  this  con- 
jimction  of  two  sympathetic  Scots  in  a  dismal  London 
shed?    Not  a  bit  of  it: 

'  He  was  tall,  thin,  spare — indeed,  he  struck  me  as  almost  fantastically 
spare.  I  remember  thinking  that  the  station  draught  caught  him  like  a 
torn  leaf  blowing  at  the  end  of  a  branch.' 


THE   WINGED   DESTINY  389 

"  Mind  you,  at  that  moment  Mr.  Sharp  did  not  know 
who  the  stranger  was,  but  knew  by  instinct  tliat  the  sta- 
tion draught  ought  to  make  poetical  use  of  him.  More 
than  that,  Mr.  Sharp  saw  that  Stevenson  had  the  air  of 
a  man  just  picked  out  of  a  watery  grave.  Anybody  could 
see  this. 

'  That  it  was  not  merely  an  impression  of  my  own  was  proved  by  the 
exclamation  of  a  cabman,  who  was  standing  beside  me  expectant  of  a 
"fare"  who  had  gone  to  look  after  his  luggage:  "Looks  like  a  sooercide, 
don't  he.  sir?  One  o'  them  chaps  as  takes  their  down-on-their-luck  'eaders 
into  tlie  Thames !  "  ' 

"  When  Stevenson  could  inflame  a  cabman  with  this  pic- 
turesque fantasy,  no  wonder  he  turned  Waterloo  Station 
into  the  home  of  romance.  But  this  was  not  all.  The 
*  sooercide  '  had  still  more  magic  about  him.  Stevenson 
was  waiting  for  a  friend  to  arrive  by  train,  and  when  the 
friend  appeared,  the  drowned  revenant  became  another 
being. 

'  The  dark  locks  apparently  receded,  like  weedy  tangle  in  the  ebb ;  the 
long  sallow  oval  grew  rounder  and  less  wan;  the  sombre  melancholy 
vanished  like  cloud-scud  on  a  day  of  wind  and  sun,  and  the  dark  eyes 
lightened  to  a  violet-blue  and  were  filled  with  sunshine  and  laughter.' 

"  This  extraordinary  man  was  carrying  a  book  and 
dropped  it.  Then  happened  something  which  expanded 
Waterloo  Station  into  the  infinite: 

'  I  lifted  and  restored  it,  noticing  as  I  did  that  it  was  the  Tragic 
Comedians,  .  .  . 

In  1902  W.  S.  had  been  greatly  gratified  by  a  request 
from  the  composer,  Mr.  McDowell,  couched  in  generous 
terms  of  appreciation : 

Columbia  Univebsity, 
New  Yobk,  May  25th, 

Miss  Fiona  Macleod, 
My  dear  Madam, 

Your  work  has  so  grown  into  my  life  that  I  venture 
to  ask  you  to  permit  my  placing  your  name  on  some 
music  of  mine.  Your  poems  have  been  an  inspiration  to 
me  and  I  trust  you  will  accept  a  dedication  of  music  that 


390  WILLIAM   SHARP 

is  yours  already  by  right  of  suggestion.  By  this  I  do  not 
mean  that  my  music  in  any  way  echoes  your  words  but 
that  your  words  have  been  a  most  powerful  incentive  to 
me  in  my  music  and  I  crave  your  sympathy  for  it. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Edward  MacDowell. 

At  the  end  of  1904  F.  M.  wrote  to  Mr.  Lawrence  Gil- 
man,  the  American  Musical  Critic : 

22  Obmidale  Tebbace, 

MURBAYFIELD,   31st  DeC, 

Dear  Mr.  Gilman, 

Some  time  ago  a  friend  played  to  me  one  or  two  lovely 
airs  by  Mr.  LoeflSer,  and  I  was  so  much  impressed  by  their 
unique  quality  and  their  atmosphere  of  subtle  beauty  that 
I  wrote  to  find  out  what  I  could  about  this  composer,  and 
also  about  another,  Mr.  MacDowell,  whose  beautiful  Kel- 
tic Sonata  I  have  heard.  And  now  I  have  been  sent  a 
copy  of  your  winsome  and  deeply  interesting  and  in- 
forming little  book,  Phases  of  Modern  Music.  There  I 
not  only  find  much  of  deep  interest  to  me  about  Mr.  Loef- 
fler  and  Mr.  MacDowell,  but  find  your  whole  book  at  once 
informing  and  fascinating.  In  addition  I  had  the  great 
pleasure  of  coming  unexpectedly  upon  allusions  to  my- 
self and  my  writings :  and  I  would  like  you  to  know  how 
truly  I  appreciate  these,  and  how  glad  I  am  that  a  critic 
touched  to  such  fine  issues  in  the  great  art  of  Music,  and 
with  so  keen  a  sense  for  the  new  ideals  of  beauty,  the 
new  conceptions  of  style  and  distinction,  should  care  for 
what  I  am  trying  to  do  in  my  own  art. 

I  hope  you  are  writing  another  book.  Whether  on 
musical  subjects  only,  or  on  literary  and  musical  subjects 
in  conjunction  (which  of  course  would  appeal  to  a  wider 
section  of  the  reading  public),  any  such  book  would  I 
am  sure,  be  welcomed  by  all  who  know  Phases  of  Modern 
Music. 

1  wish  I  knew  more  of  the  music  of  these  two  com- 
posers. There  is  a  spirit  abroad  just  now,  full  of  a  new 
poignancy  of  emotion,  uplifted  on  a  secret  wave  of  pas- 


THE   WINGED   DESTINY  391 

sion  and  ecstasy,  and  these  men  seem  to  me  of  that  small 
but  radiant  company  who  have  slept  and  dreamed  in  the 
other  world  and  drank  moon-dew. 

Let  me  thank  you  again  for  all  the  pleasure  you  have 
given  me,  and 

Believe  me 

Most  truly  yours, 

Fiona  Macleod. 
Mr.  Lawrence  Gilman  replied: 

New  York, 
Jan  14,  1905. 

My  dear  Miss  Macleod, 

It  would  not  be  easy  for  me  to  tell  you,  without  seem- 
ing extravagance,  of  the  keen  pleasure  I  have  had  in 
your  cordial  letter  concerning  my  book.  Phases  of  Mod- 
ern Music.  The  deep  impression  which  your  own  work 
has  made  upon  me  must  already  have  become  evident  to 
you  through  even  the  most  cursory  reading  of  my  book — 
an  impression  the  extent  and  definiteness  of  which  I  my- 
self had  scarcely  realised.  You  will  know,  then,  how 
great  a  satisfaction  it  is  for  me  to  hear  that  you  have 
been  interested  in  my  thoughts  on  musical  subjects,  and 
that  they  have  seemed  to  you  worthy  of  the  friendly 
praise  which  you  have  spoken  in  your  letter. 

So  you  know  and  like  the  music  of  Loeffler  and  Mac- 
Dowell!  That  is  good  to  hear;  for  few,  even  in  this 
country,  where  they  have  been  active  in  their  art  for  so 
long,  are  sensible  of  the  beauty  and  power  of  their  work. 
Do  you  know  Loeffler's  latest  production — "  Quatre 
Poemes,"  settings  of  verses  by  Verlaine  and  Baudelaire? 
They  are  written  for  voice,  piano,  and  viola:  a  singular 
and  admirable  combination.  Mr.  MacDowell  will  be  glad 
to  hear  of  your  pleasure  in  his  "  Keltic  Sonata,"  for  he 
is  one  of  your  most  sensitive  admirers :  it  was  he,  indeed, 
who  first  made  me  acquainted  with  your  work.  Have  you 
heard  his  earliest  sonatas — the  "  Norse,"  "  Eroica,"  and 
a  Tragica  "  ?  They  are  not  very  far  behind  the  "  Keltic  " 
in  distinction  and  force,  though  lacking  the  import  and 
exaltation  of  the  latter. 

You  would  be  surprised,  I  think,  to  know  how  the 


392  WILLIAM    SHARP 

Celtic  impulse  is  seizing  the  imaginations  of  some  of  the 
younger  and  more  warmly-tempered  of  American  com- 
posers. I  am  enclosing  a  programme  of  a  concert  given 
recently  in  Boston,  consisting  entirely  of  music  written 
on  Celtic  themes. 
Thank  you  again. 

Very  faithfully  yours, 

Lawrence  Oilman. 

When  in  New  York  William  Sharp  had  written  to  Mr. 
Alden  "  on  behalf  of  Miss  Macleod  "  concerning  her  later 
nature-essay  work,  and  explained  that  "  Some  months 
ago,  by  special  request  from  the  Editor  of  Country  Life 
Miss  M.  began  contributing  one  or  two  of  these  papers. 
From  the  first  they  attracted  notice,  and  then  the  Editor 
asked  her  if  she  would  contribute  a  series  to  appear  as 
frequently  as  practicable — averaging  two  a  month — till 
next  May  when  they  would  be  issued  in  book-form.  As 
Miss  M.  enjoys  writing  them,  she  agreed." 

In  the  same  letter  he  spoke  of  a  subject  on  which  he 
had  long  meditated.  He  proposed  it  for  Harper's  Maga- 
zine:— "  I  have  long  been  thinking  over  the  material  of  an 
article  on  the  Fundamental  Science  of  Criticism,  to  be 
headed,  say  '  A  New  Degree :  D.  Crit.'  "  This  project 
among  many  others  was  never  worked  out.  But  the  '  na- 
ture-papers '  were  a  great  pleasure  to  him,  and  in  1904 
and  1905  he  wrote  on  many  subjects  for  Country  Life, 
over  the  signature  of  F.  M.,  also  several  poems  that 
were  afterwards  included  in  the  second  edition  of  From 
the  Hills  of  Dream. 

As  month  by  month  the  number  of  nature  essays  grew, 
he  planned  to  issue  them  in  two,  and  later  in  three  vol- 
umes. To  the  second  volume  he  thought  to  give  the  title 
"  Blue  Days  and  Green  Days  "  (from  a  line  of  R.  L.  Stev- 
enson's), and  to  call  the  third,  which  was  to  deal  with  the 
stars  and  the  skies  at  night,  "  Beyond  the  Blue  Septen- 
trion."  Not  all  the  projected  essays  for  each  book,  how- 
ever, were  written;  but  those  which  appeared  serially 
were  published  posthumously  in  1906,  by  Country  Life 


THE    WINGED    DESTINY  393 

under  the  title  of  Where  the  Forest  Murmurs.  Concern- 
ing the  titular  essay,  Mr.  Alfred  Noyes  wrote :  ''  It  is  one 
of  those  pieces  of  nature-study  which,  in  Matthew  Ar- 
nold's phrase,  have  that  rarest  of  all  modern  qualities — 
'  Healing  Power.'  " 
And  according  to  The  Contemporary  Review: 
"  Fiona  Macleod's  prose  baffles  description.  It  is  per- 
haps hardly  prose  at  all.  It  is  melody  in  words  suggest- 
ing scenes  as  much  by  sound  as  by  the  passage  of  ideas. 
The  ideas  conveyed  by  the  actual  words  are  supplemented 
by  the  rhythm  or  melody  conveyed  by  the  sequence  of 
words.  But  it  is,  when  all  analysis  is  ended,  something 
quite  alone :  pure  music  of  a  strange  and  curious  quality 
that  is  neither  prose  nor  poetry,  but  thrilling  with  the 
pain  and  passion  of  a  Gaelic  chant.  It  conveys  to  the 
mind  and  heart  the  scenes  and  sounds  of  nature  with  al- 
most magical  accuracy." 

The  immediate  object  of  our  short  visit  to  New  York 
and  Boston  was  that  I  should  know  in  person  some  of 
the  many  friends  my  husband  valued  there,  and  I  was 
specially  interested  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stedman,  who  gave  me  a  warm  welcome,  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Alden,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  E.  Watson  Gilder,  Mr. 
John  Lafarge,  Mrs.  Julia  W^ard  Howe,  and  Miss  Caro- 
line Hazard  whom  we  visited  at  Wellesley  College.  But 
winter  set  in  with  December.  The  cold  proved  so  severe 
that  we  sailed  for  and  reached  Naples  in  time  to  spend 
Xmas  Day  with  friends  at  Bordighera  whence  W.  S.  wrote 
to  Mr.  Murray  Gilchrist :  "  We  are  back  from  America 
(thank  God)  and  are  in  Italy  (thank  Him  more).  .  .  . 
For  myself  I  am  crawling  out  of  the  suck  of  a  wave 
whose  sweep  will  I  hope  be  a  big  one  of  some  months  and 
carry  me  far." 

In  Rome  we  took  rooms  at  the  top  of  Fischer's  Park 
Hotel,  whence  from  the  balconies  we  had  a  superb  view 
over  Rome.  There  we  saw  a  few  friends — in  particular 
Mr.  Hichens  who  was  also  wintering  there ;  but  my  hus- 


394  WILLIAM    SHARP 

band  did  not  feel  strong  enough  for  any  social  effort.    As 
he  wrote  to  Mr.  Mosher: 

11th  Feb.,  1905. 

Dubious  and  ever  varying  health,  with  much  going 
to  and  fro  in  quest  of  what  is  perhaps  not  to  be  found 
(for  mere  change  of  climate  will  not  give  health  unless 
other  conditions  combine  to  bring  about  the  miracle) 
have,  among  other  causes,  prevented  my  writing  to  you 
as  I  had  intended,  or,  indeed,  from  doing  much  writing 
of  any  kind.  I  have  written  a  few  articles  for  Country 
Life — and  little  else,  published  or  unpublished.  The 
days  go  by  and  I  say  "  at  night " — and  every  night  I  am 
too  tired  or  listless,  and  say  "tomorrow  " :  and  so  both 
the  nights  and  the  morrows  go  to  become  thistles  in  the 
Valley  of  Oblivion.  But  with  the  advancing  Spring  I  am 
regathering  somewhat  of  lost  energy,  and  if  only  I  were 
back  in  Scotland  I  believe  I  should  be  hard  at  work! 
Well,  I  shall  be  there  soon,  though  I  may  be  away  again, 
in  the  remote  isles  or  in  Scandinavia  for  the  late  spring 
and  summer.  .  .  . 

F.  M. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 
1905 

"  There  is  a  great  serenity  in  the  thought  of  death,  when  it 
is  known  to  be  the  Gate  of  Life."  Fiona  Macleod. 

April  my  husband  spent  in  the  West  of  Scotland,  for 
which  he  pined;  and  on  his  way  North  broke  his  journey 
in  Edinburgh  whence  he  wrote  to  Mr.  W.  J.  Robertson, 
the  translator  into  English  verse  of  A  Century  of  the 
French  poets  of  the  XIX  Century: 

April,  1905. 

Deae  Mr.  Robertson, 

After  our  most  pleasant  evening  a  deux  I  had  a  com- 
fortable journey  north :  and  last  night  luxuriated  in  get- 
ting to  bed  early  (a  rare  thing  for  me)  with  the  sure  and 
certain  knowledge  there  would  be  no  glorious  resurrection 
therefrom  at  any  untimely  hour.  So  after  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  the  true  Gael — who  is  said  to  put  85  to  the  poor 
Sassenach  40  winks — I  woke  in  peace.  I  was  thereafter 
having  a  cigarette  over  the  Scotsman  when  my  youngest 
(and  secretary)  sister  brought  me  my  letters,  papers, 
etc.  and  with  them  a  long  narrow  box  which  I  soon  dis- 
covered to  be  your  generous  gift  of  100  of  these  delect- 
able Indian  cigars.  It  is  very  good  of  you  indeed,  and  I 
am  grateful,  and  may  the  ancient  Gaelic  God  Dia-Cheo, 
God  of  Smoke,  grant  you  remission  of  all  your  philologi- 
cal sins  and  derivative  '  howlers ' — and  the  more  so  as 
there  is  no  authority  for  any  such  god,  and  the  name 
would  signify  hill-mist  instead  of  pipe-smoke !  And  may 
I  have  a  hundred  '  reves  de  Notre  Dame  de  Nicotine ! '  I. 
couldn't  resist  trying  one.  Wholly  excellent.  And  in  the 
meditative  fumes  I  arrived  through  intuition  at  the  fol- 
lowing derivation  which  I  hope  will  find  a  place  in  your 
book: 

395 


396  WILLIxVM    SHAEP 

Roab     ancient  Celtic  for  a  Good  Fellow 

H'Errt       "  "         "     Smoke-Maker   or    Smoke-Be- 

stower 
's  contraction  for  Agiis  '  and  ', 
Onn  ancient  Celtic  for  '  May  Heaven  Bless  ' 

W.  J.  ancient  Celtic  Tribal  tattoo 

which,  assisted  in  dreams  by  the  spirits  of  Windisch, 
D'Arbois  de  Jubainville,  Loth,  Whitley  Stokes  and  Kuno 
Meyer,  I  take  to  be  W.  J.  Roah-H'Errt-S-onn — i.  e.  Bill- 
Jack,  or  in  mod.  English  '  William  John '  of  the  Clan  of 
Heaven-Blessed  Friendly  Smokers — i.  e.  William  John 
of  the  Eoaberrtsson,  or  Robertson  Clan.  This  of  course 
disposes  of  Donnachie  once  and  for  all. 
Ever  sincerely  yours 

William  Shaep. 

From  Edinburgh  he  and  his  secretary-sister  Mary 
went  to  Lismore,  so  that  he  might  "  feel  the  dear  West 
once  more."  From  Oban  he  reported  to  Mr.  W.  J.  Rob- 
ertson on  a  post  card  addressed  to  "  Ri  Willeam  Iain 
MacRiobeart  mhic  Donnach  aidh  " 

"  Awful  accident  in  a  lonely  Isle  of  the  West. 

A  distinguished  stranger  was  observing  the  vasty  deep, 
and  had  laid  a  flask-filled  cup  on  a  rock  beside  him  when 
a  tamned  gull  upset  it  and  at  same  time  carried  off  a 
valuable  Indian  cheroot.  Deep  sympathy  is  everywhere 
expressed,  for  the  distinguished  stranger,  the  lost  che- 
root, and  above  all  for  the  spilt  cup  and  abruptly  emptied 
flask.    A  gloom  has  been  cast  over  the  whole  island. 

Verb:    Sap:" 

From  Lismore  he  wrote  to  me : 

"  April  19.  It  was  sweet  to  fall  asleep  last  night  to  the 
sound  of  the  hill-wind  and  the  swift  troubled  waters.  We 
had  a  lovely  walk  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  again  in  the 
sombre  moonlit  night.  It  came  on  too  stormy  for  me 
to  go  round  to  the  Cavern  later,  however.  I'll  try  again. 
I  was  there  about  first  dusk,  with  Mary.  To  my  chagrin 
there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight  of  the  sea-woman,  but 


1905  397 

she  must  be  there  for  MacC.  has  twice  heard  her  sob- 
bing and  crying  out  at  him  when  he  passed  close  in  the 
black  darkness.  There  was  only  a  lapwing  wailing  near 
by,  but  both  Mary  and  I  heard  a  singular  furtive  sound 
like  something  in  a  trailing  silk  dress  whispering  to  it- 
self as  it  slid  past  in  the  dusk — but  this,  I  think,  was  a 
curious  echo  of  what's  called  '  a  sobbing  wave '  in  some 
narrow  columnar  hidden  hollow  opening  from  the  sea. 
Mary  got  the  creeps,  and  loathed  a  story  I  told  her  about 
a  midianmara  that  sang  lovely  songs  but  only  so  as  to 
drown  the  listener  and  suck  the  white  warm  marrow  out 
of  his  spine. 

Later  I  joined  MacC.  for  a  bit  over  the  flickering  fire- 
flaucht.  I  got  him  to  tell  me  all  over  again  and  more 
fully  about  the  Maighdeann  Mhara.  The  first  time  he 
heard  '  something '  was  before  his  fright  last  Novem- 
ber.   '  There  was  ceol  then  '  he  said.  .  .  . 

I  asked  in  Gaelic  'were  songs  sung!'  He  said  'Yes, 
at  times.'  Mrs.  MacC.  was  angry  at  him  he  said,  and  said 
he  hadn't  the  common-sense  of  a  jenny-cluckett  (a  cluck- 
ing hen) — but  (and  there's  a  world  of  difference  in  that) 
she  hadn't  heard  tvhat  he  had  heard.  So  to  cheer  him  up 
I  told  him  a  story  about  a  crab  that  fed  on  the  brains  of 
a  drowned  man,  and  grew  with  such  awful  and  horrible 
wisdom  that  it  climbed  up  the  stairway  of  the  seaweed 
and  on  to  a  big  rock  and  waved  its  claws  at  the  moon  and 
cursed  God  and  the  world,  and  then  died  raving  mad. 
Seeing  how  it  worked  upon  him,  I  said  I  would  tell  him 
another,  and  worse,  about  a  lobster — but  he  was  just  as 
bad  as  Mary,  and  said  he  would  wait  for  the  lobster  till 
the  morning,  and  seemed  so  absurdly  eager  to  get  safely 
to  bed  that  the  pleasant  chat  had  to  be  abruptly  broken 
off.  .  .  . 

P.  S.  The  cold  is  very  great,  and  it  is  a  damp  cold,  you 
couldn't  stand  it.  When  I  got  up  my  breath  swarmed 
about  the  room  like  a  clutch  of  phantom  peewits.  No 
wonder  I  had  a  dream  I  was  a  seal  with  my  feet  clemmed 
on  to  an  iceberg.  A  duck  went  past  a  little  ago  seemingly 
with  one  feather  and  that  blown  athwart  its  beak,  so 


398  WILLIAM    SHARP 

strong  was  the  north-wind  blowing  from  that  snowy  mass 
that  Ben  Nevis  wears  like  a  delicate  veil.  Cruachan  has 
covered  herself  with  a  pall  of  snow  mist. 

April  20.  .  .  .  Fiona  Macleod  has  just  been  made  an 
honorary  member  of  a  French  League  of  writers  devoted 
to  the  rarer  and  subtler  use  of  Prose  and  Verse,  a  charm- 
ing letter  from  Paul  Fort  acting  for  his  colleagues  Mae- 
terlinck, Henri  de  Roquier,  Jean  Moreas,  Emile  Verhac- 
ren,  Comte  Antoine  de  la  Rochefoucault,  Duchesse  de  la 
Roche-Guyon,  Richeguin,  Sully  Prudhomme,  Henri  Le 
Sidaner,  Jules  Claretie,  etc.  etc. 

We're  glad,  aren't  we,  you  and  I?  She's  our  daughter, 
isn't  she? 

23d  April.  .  .  .  You  will  have  got  my  note  of  yester- 
day telling  you  that  I  have  reluctantly  had  to  relinguish 
lona.    The  primary  reason  is  its  isolation  at  present.  .  .  . 

But  from  something  I  heard  from  old  Mr.  C.  I  fancy 
it's  as  well  for  me  not  to  visit  there  just  now,  where  I'd 
be  the  only  stranger,  and  every  one  would  know  of  it — 
and  where  a  look  out  for  F.  M.  or  W.  S.  is  kept !  And, 
too,  anything  heard  there  and  afterwards  utilised  would 
be  as  easily  traced  to  me.  .  .  .  After  Tiree  and  lona  and 
Coll,  and  Arran  in  the  South,  I  don't  care  just  now  for 
anywhere  else — nearer:  as  for  Eigg,  which  I  loved  so 
much  of  old,  Rum  or  Canna  and  the  Outer  Isles,  they  are 
too  inaccessible  just  now  and  Skye  is  too  remote  and  too 
wet  and  cold.  However,  it  is  isolation  plus  '  atmosphere  ' 
I  want  most  of  all — and  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  place  just 
now  I  could  get  so  much  good  from  as  Lismore.  I  love 
that  quiet  isolated  house  on  the  rocks  facing  the  Frith  of 
Lome,  all  Appin  to  Ben  Naomhir,  and  the  great  moun- 
tains of  Morven. 

It  was  on  the  sandy  bindweed-held  slope  of  the  little 
bay  near  the  house,  facing  Eilean-nan-Coarach,  that  F. 
wrote  the  prelude  to  The  Winged  Destiny — and  also 
the  first  piece,  the  "  Treud-nan-Ron,"  which  describes 
that  region,  with  Mr.  MacC.'s  seal  legend,  and  the  dear 


1905  399 

little  island  in  the  Sound  of  Morvem  (do  you  remember 
our  row  to  it  one  day?)  There  one  could  be  quiet  and 
given  over  to  dreams  and  to  the  endless  fascination  of 
outer  nature.  .  .  .  And  I  have  got  much  of  what  I  want 
— the  in-touch  above  all,  the  atmosphere :  enough  to  strike 
the  keynote  throughout  the  coming  year  and  more,  for 
I  absorb  through  the  very  pores  of  both  mind  and  body 
like  a  veritable  sponge.  Wild-life  and  plant-life  too  ex- 
tremely interesting  here.  There  does  seem  some  mys- 
tery about  that  cave  tho'  I  cannot  fathom  it. 

I've  all  but  finished  the  preparation  of  the  new  Tauch- 
nitz  vol.  (The  Sunset  of  Old  Tales)  and  expect  to  com- 
plete it  (for  May)  tonight. 

24th  April.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  was  sorry  to  leave  Lismore. 
It  may  be  my  last  time  in  the  Gaelic  west.  {I  don't  say 
this  "  down-ly  " — but  because  I  think  it  likely.  There 
is  much  I  want  to  do,  and  now  as  much  by  W.  S.  as  by 
F.  M.  and  that  I  realise  must  be  done  abroad  where  alone 
can  I  keep  well  and  mentally  even  more  than  physically. 
(How  I  hope  Fontainebleau  may  some  day  suit  us.) 
Dear  MacC.  was  sorry  to  part  too.  He  shook  hands  (with 
both  his)  and  when  I  said  in  Gaelic  "  Goodbye,  and  Fare- 
well upon  that,  my  friend  "  he  said  "  No — no  " — and  then 
suddenly  said  "  My  blessing  on  you — and  goodbye  now !  " 
and  turned  away  and  went  down  the  pier-side  and  hoisted 
the  brown  sail  and  went  away  across  the  water,  waving  a 
last  farewell." 

The  cold  proved  so  disastrous  that  my  husband  was 
ordered  to  Neuenahr  for  special  treatment.  Thence  he 
wrote  to  the  Hon.  A.  Nelson  Hood: 

June,  1905. 

My  dear  Julian, 

Just  a  brief  line,  for  I  am  still  very  restricted  in  per- 
mission as  to  writing,  as  so  much  depends  on  the  rest- 
cure  which  is  no  small  factor  in  my  redemption  here.  .  .  . 

It  has  been  *  a  narrow  squeak.'  Briefly,  after  a  hard 
tussle  at  the  brink  of  '  Cape  Fatal '  and  a  stumble  across 


400  WILLIAM   SHARP 

'  Swamp  Perilous  '  I  got  into  the  merely  "  dangerous  con- 
dition "  stage — and  now  at  last  that's  left  behind,  and  I'll 
soon  be  as  well  in  body  as  I'm  happy  and  serene  in  mind. 
It  is  at  best,  however,  a  reprieve,  not  a  lifetime-dis- 
charge. N'importe.  Much  can  be  done  with  a  reprieve, 
and  who  is  to  know  how  long  the  furlough  may  be  ex- 
tended to.    At  any  rate,  I  am  well  content." 

To  me  he  wrote — for  I  was  unable  to  accompany  him : 

Neuenahe, 
16th  June,  1905. 

.  .  .  Here,  at  the  Villa  Usner,  it  is  deliciously  quiet  and 
reposeful.  I  had  not  realised  to  the  full  how  much  nerv- 
ous harm  I've  had  for  long.  To  live  near  trees  is  alone 
a  joy  and  a  restorative.  The  heat  is  very  great  but  to  me 
most  welcome  and  strengthening.  ...  In  my  room  or  in 
the  garden  I  hear  no  noise,  no  sounds  save  the  susurrus 
of  leaves  and  the  sweet  monotony  of  the  rushing  Ahr, 
and  the  cries  and  broken  songs  of  birds.  .  .  . 

I  could  see  that  Dr.  G.  can't  understand  why  I  am  not 
more  depressed  or,  rather,  more  anxious.  I  explained 
to  him  that  these  physical  troubles  meant  little  to  me, 
and  that  they  were  largely  the  bodily  effect  of  other 
things,  and  might  be  healed  far  more  by  spiritual  well- 
being  than  by  anything  else :  also  that  nature  and  fresh 
air  and  serenity  and  light  and  warmth  and  nervous  rest 
were  worth  far  more  to  me  than  all  else.  "  But  don't  you 
know  how  serious  your  condition  may  become  at  any  mo- 
ment, if  you  got  a  bad  chill  or  setback,  or  don't  soon  get 
better?"  "Certainly,"  I  said;  "but  what  then?  Why 
would  I  bother  about  either  living  or  dying?  I  shall  not 
die  before  the  hour  of  my  imloosening  comes." 

I  want  to  be  helped  all  I  may  be — but  all  the  waters 
in  the  world  can  only  affect  the  external  life,  and  even 
that  only  secondarily  very  often.  .  .  . 

Monday  evening. 

.  .  .  " Hoiv  I  enjoyed  my  breakfast  this  morning!  (in 
the  lovely  garden,  in  a  vine-shadowed  arbour  or  per- 


1905  401 

gola,  with  great  tall  poplars  and  other  trees  billowing 
against  the  deep  blue).  Then  a  cigarette,  a  stroll  in  the 
lovely  sunlit-dappled  green  shadowiness  of  an  adjoin- 
ing up-sloping  avenue — and  a  seat  for  a  little  on  a  de- 
serted south-wall  bench  (because  of  the  blazing  heat) 
for  a  sun-bath,  while  I  watched  a  nightingale  helping  its 
young  to  fly  among  the  creaming  elders  and  masses  of 
wild-rose,  while  her  mate  swung  on  a  beech-branch  and 
called  long  sweet  exquisite  cries  of  a  thrilling  poignancy 
(which,  however,  might  only  l)e  "  Now  then,  Jenny,  look 
out,  or  Tommy  will  fall  into  that  mass  of  syringa : — hillo ! 
there's  Bobby  and  Polly  gone  and  got  scratched  pecking 
at  these  confounded  white  wild-roses!) 

Then  I  got  up  to  come  in  and  write  to  you  (gladly  in 
one  way,  reluctantly  in  another  for  I  seem  to  drink  in 
life  in  the  strong  sunlight  and  heat),  but  first  stopped 
to  speak  to  a  gorgeous  solitary  dandelion.  I  stroked  it 
gently,  and  said  "Hullo,  wee  brother,  isn't  the  world 
beautiful?  Hold  up  your  wee  head  and  rejoice!  "  And 
it  turned  up  its  wee  golden  nose  and  said  "  Keep  your 
hair  on,  you  old  skidamalink,  I'm  rejoicing  as  hard  as 
ever  I  can.  I'm  always  rejoicing.  What  else  would  I 
do?  You  are  a  rum  old  un-shiny  animal  on  two  silly 
legs ! "  So  we  laughed,  and  parted — but  he  called  me 
back,  and  said  gently  in  a  wee  soft  goldy-yellow  voice, 
"  Don't  think  me  rude.  Brother  of  Joy.  It's  only  my  way. 
I  love  you  because  you  love  me  and  don't  despise  me. 
Shake  pinkies ! " — so  I  gave  him  a  pinkie  and  he  gave 
me  a  wee  golden-yellow  pinkie-petal.  .  .  . 

Tell  Marjorie  ^  the  wee  Dandelion  was  asking  about 
her  and  sends  her  his  love — also  a  milky  daisy  that  says 
Hooray!  every  morning  when  it  wakes,  and  then  is  so 
pleased  and  astonished  that  it  remains  silently  smiling 
till  next  morning. 

This  flower  and  bird  talk  doesn't  bother  you,  does  it? 
Don't  think  I  don't  realise  how  ill  I  have  been  and  in  a 
small  way  still  am:  but  I  don't  think  about  it,  and  am 
quite  glad  and  happy  in  this  lovely  June-glory.  .  .  ." 

*  The  little  daughter  of  our  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arthur  Tomson. 


402  WILLIAM    SHARP 

He  broke  his  return  journey  at  Doom  with  our  friends 
M.  and  Mme.  Grandmont  and  wrote  to  me: 

July,  1905. 

".  .  .  How  you'd  love  to  be  here ! 

Nothing  visible  but  green  depths  fading  into  green 
depths,  and  fringing  the  sky-lines  the  endless  surf  of 
boughs  and  branches.  From  the  forest-glades  the  cooing 
of  doves  and  the  travelling-voice  of  a  flowing  cool  sweet 
wind  of  this  delicious  morning.  I  always  gain  immensely 
in  mind  and  body  from  nearness  to  woodlands  and  green 
growth — hence  in  no  small  part  my  feeling  for  Fontaine- 
bleau.  I'd  such  a  lot  to  tell  you  about  it — and  of  what 
we  should  strive  to  obtain  for  ourselves  in  restful,  fine, 
dignified  life,  and  much  else,  apropos  and  apart — as  you 
lay  happy  and  contented  on  the  long  luxurious  lounge 
beside  my  chair  on  the  deep  balcony,  half  listening  to  me 
and  half  to  the  soft  continuous  susurrus  of  the  pine- 
fragrant  breeze — that  more  than  an  hour  elajDsed  while  I 
drank  my  tea  and  read  your  letter.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say,  that,  so  greatly  do  I 
value  and  treasure  afterwards  certain  aspects  of  beauty, 
I  would  quite  willingly  go  through  all  the  suffering  again 
for  the  sake  of  the  lovely  impressions  here  last  night  and 
this  morning.  The  beauty  and  charm  of  this  house  and 
its  forest-environment,  the  young  moon  and  the  night- 
jar at  dusk  (and  then  to  soothe  and  sleepify  me  still 
more,  the  soft,  sweet,  old-fashioned  melodies  of  Haydn 
from  9  to  9.30) — one  or  two  lovely  peacocks  trailing 
about  in  front — the  swallows  at  corner  of  my  great  ve- 
randah— a  thousandfold  peace  and  beauty,  and  the  good- 
ness of  these  dear  friends,  have  not  only  been,  and  are, 
a  living  continuous  joy,  but  have  been  like  the  Heralds 
of  Spring  to  the  return  of  gladness  and  energy  into  my 
mind.  Today  I  realise  that  too,  for  one  thing,  '  Fiona ' 
has  come  back  from  afar  off.  It  is  peace  and  greenness 
she  loves — not  the  physical  and  psychical  perturbation 
and  demoralisation  of  towns. 

Yes,  we'll  make  '  green  homes  '  for  ourselves  now.  No 
more  long  needless  months  in  London.  .  .  . 


1905  403 

Despite  his  serenity  of  mind,  London  as  usual  wrought 
him  harm,  and  as  he  explained  to  Dr.  Goodchild: 

30th  July. 

.  .  .  August  is  always  a  '  dark '  month  for  me — and 
not  as  a  rule,  I  fancy,  a  good  one :  at  any  rate  an  obscure 
and  perhaps  perilous  one.  But  this  time  I  fancy  it  is  on 
other  lines.  I  believe  strong  motives  and  influences  are 
to  be  at  work  in  it  perhaps  furtively  only:  but  none  the 
less  potently  and  far  reachingly.  Between  now  and  Sep- 
tember-end (perhaps  longer)  many  of  the  Dark  Powers 
are  going  to  make  a  great  effort.  We  must  all  be  on 
guard — for  there  will  be  individual  as  well  as  racial  and 
general  attack.    But  a  Great  Unloosening  is  at  hand. 

Yours  ever, 

W.  S. 

We  therefore  went  to  Scotland  to  say  goodbye  to  his 
mother  and  sisters,  and  to  see  one  or  two  friends,  among 
others.  Miss  Mary  Wilson,  the  pastellist,  at  Bantaskine, 
her  home  on  the  site  of  the  battle  of  Falkirk ;  Mr.  D.  Y. 
Cameron,  with  whom  my  husband  planned  an  unfulfilled 
wander  among  the  Western  Isles;  and  Mr.  David  Ers- 
kine  of  Linlathen. 

While  in  the  North  he  wrote  to  Mr.  John  Maesfield: 

Kessock  Cottage, 

Nairn. 

Dear  Mr.  Maesfield, 

A  brief  word  to  tell  you  what  pleasure  I  have  had  in 
your  little  book  A  Mainsail  Haul.  It  is  not  only  that  it 
is  written  with  delicate  art :  but  it  is  rich  in  atmosphere 
— a  much  rarer  thing.  The  simplicity,  the  charm,  the 
subtle  implication  of  floating,  evasive  yet  fluctuating  ro- 
mance, your  own  keen  sense  of  the  use  of  words  and 
their  veiled  life  and  latent  as  well  as  obvious  colour,  com- 
bine to  a  winning  and  often  compelling  effect.  I  do  not 
think  any  who  has  read  Don  Alfonso's  drinking  bout  with 
the  little  red  man  and  the  strange  homegoing  of  the  weed 
and  flower-grown  brigantine  with  the  Bible  name,  will 


404  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

forget  it :  and  what  dream  charm  also  there  is  in  "  Port 
of  Many  Ships,"  "  Sea  Superstition,"  "  The  Spanish  Sail- 
or's Yam."  In  such  a  splendid  and  delightful  colour 
fabric  as  "  From  the  Spanish  "  "  high  words  and  rare  " 
are  of  course  apt — but  is  it  not  a  mistake  to  introduce 
in  "  Sea  Superstition "  words  such  as  "  august "  and 
"wrought"  in  a  sailor's  mouth?  (In  the  text  the  effect 
seems  to  be  enhanced  not  lessened,  by  the  omission  of 
these  words — "  were  like  things  in  bronze,"  "  the  roof  of 
which  was  of  dim  branches.") 

In  "  From  the  Spanish  "  I  would,  as  a  matter  of  per- 
sonal taste,  prefer  that  the  end  came  at  the  close  of  the 
penultimate  para,  the  shore-drift  of  the  Italian  lute.  I 
think  the  strange  dream-like  effect  would  be  much  en- 
hanced without  (what  seems  to  me)  the  superfluous 
'  realistic  '  tag.    Otherwise  the  piece  is  a  gem  of  its  kind. 

But  you  will  forgive  the  critic  (and  it  shows  he  has 
read  closely)  in  the  admirer,  I  hope? 

Let  us  have  more  work  of  the  kind.  There  is  much 
need  of  it,  and  you  are  of  the  few  who  can  give  it. 

Yours  sincerely 

William  Sharp. 

Mr.  Maesfield  —  who  had  written  concerning  Fiona 
Macleod  to  a  friend :  "  I  think  the  genius  of  a  dead  peo- 
ple has  found  re-incarnation  in  her.  Wherever  the  Celt 
is,  thence  come  visions  and  tears  " — replied : 

Greenwich, 
Aug.  19,  1905. 

Dear  Me.  Sharp, 

I  was  deeply  touched  by  your  kind  letter  about  my 
little  book  [A  Mainsail  Haul].  If  it  should  go  to  a  sec- 
ond edition  I  will  make  use  of  your  suggestion.  I  pre- 
pared the  book  rather  hurriedly,  and  there  is  much  in  it 
that  I  very  much  dislike,  now  that  it  cannot  be  altered. 

The  mood  in  which  I  wrote  the  tales  you  like,  has  gone 
from  me,  and  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  unable  to  write 
others  of  the  same  kind.  In  youth  the  mind  is  an  empty 
chamber ;  and  the  spirits  fill  it,  and  move  and  dance  there, 


1905  405 

and  colour  it  with  their  wings  and  raiment.  In  manhood 
one  has  familiars.  But  between  those  times  (forgive  me 
for  echoing  Keats)  one  has  little  save  a  tag  or  two  of 
cynicism,  a  little  crude  experience,  much  weariness,  much 
regret,  and  a  vision  blurred  by  all  four  faults.  One  is 
weakened,  too,  by  one's  hatreds. 

I  thank  you  again  for  your  very  kind  and  cordial  letter. 
Yours  very  sincerely, 

John  Maesfield. 

To  an  unknown  correspondent  F.  M.  wrote : 

Sept.  15,  1905. 

...  I  have  been  away,  in  the  isles,  and  for  a  time 
beyond  the  reach  of  letters.  I  wish  there  were  Isles 
where  one  could  also  go  at  times,  where  no  winged 
memories  could  follow.  In  a  Gaelic  folk-tale,  told  me 
by  an  old  woman  once,  the  woman  of  the  story  had  only 
to  bum  a  rose  to  ashes  and  to  hold  them  in  the  palms  of 
her  hands  and  then  to  say  seven  times  A  Eileanain  na 
Sith,  "  0  Isles  of  Peace  " !  and  at  once  she  found  her- 
self in  quiet  isles  beyond  the  foam  where  no  memo- 
ries could  follow  her  and  where  old  thoughts,  if  they 
came,  were  like  phantoms  on  the  wind,  in  a  moment 
come,  in  a  moment  gone.  I  have  failed  to  find  these 
Isles,  and  so  have  you:  but  there  are  three  which  lie 
nearer,  and  may  be  reached,  Dream,  Forgetfulness,  and 
Hope. 

And  there,  it  may  be,  we  can  meet,  you  and  I.  .  .  . 

Yes,  your  insight  is  true.  There  is  a  personal  sincer- 
ity, the  direct  autobiographical  utterance,  in  even,  as 
you  say,  the  most  remote  and  phantastic  of  my  legends 
as  in  the  plainest  of  my  words.  But  because  they  cover 
so  much  illusion  as  well  as  passion,  so  much  love  gone 
on  the  wind  as  well  as  love  that  not  even  the  winds  of 
life  and  death  can  break  or  uproot,  so  much  more  of  deep 
sorrow  (apart  from  the  racial  sorrow  which  breathes 
through  all)  than  of  joy  save  in  the  deeper  spiritual 
sense,  they  were  thus  raimented  in  allegory  and  legend 
and  all  the  illusion  of  the  past,  the  remote,  the  obscure, 


406  WILLIAM    SHARP 

or  the  still  simpler  if  more  audacious  directness  of  the 
actual,  the  present,  and  the  explicit.  There  is,  perhaps, 
a  greater  safety,  a  greater  illusion,  in  absolute  simplicity 
than  in  the  most  subtly  wrought  of  art.  .  .  . 

But  you  will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  you  must 
not  count  on  our  meeting — at  any  rate  not  this  year.  I 
too  stand  under  obscure  wings. 

Your  friend, 

F.  M. 

To  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland: 

...  I  have  the  memory  that  recalls  everything  in  pro- 
portion and  sequence.  I  have  often  written  that  art  is 
memory,  is  in  great  part  memory,  though  not  necessarily 
a  recalling  of  mere  personal  experience:  and  the  more 
deeply  I  live  the  more  I  see  that  this  is  so.  .  .  . 

When  you  write,  I  mean  imaginatively,  you  must  write 
more  and  more  with  concentrated  vision.  Some  time  ago 
I  re-read  your  Four  Winds  of  the  World;  much  of  it  is 
finely  done,  and  in  some  of  it  your  self  lives,  your  own 
accent  speaks.  But  you  have  it  in  you  to  do  work  far 
more  ambitious.  The  last  is  not  a  word  I  like,  or  affect ; 
but  here  it  is  convenient  and  will  translate  to  your  mind 
what  is  in  my  mind.  These  stories  are  yours  but  they 
are  not  you:  and  though  in  a  sense  art  is  a  wind  above 
the  small  eddies  of  personality,  there  is  a  deeper  sense 
in  which  it  is  nothing  else  than  the  signature  of  person- 
ality. Style  (that  is,  the  outer  emotion  that  compels  and 
the  hidden  life  of  the  imagination  that  impels  and  the 
brooding  thought  that  shapes  and  colours)  should,  spir- 
itually, reflect  a  soul's  lineaments  as  faithfully  as  the 
lens  of  the  photographer  reflects  the  physiognomy  of  a 
man  or  woman.  It  is  because  I  feel  in  you  a  deep  in- 
stinct for  beauty,  a  deep  longing  for  beautiful  expres- 
sion and  because  I  believe  you  have  it  in  you  to  achieve 
highly  in  worth  and  beauty,  that  I  write  to  you  thus.  .  .  . 
There  is  that  Lady  of  Silence,  the  Madonna  of  Enigma, 
who  lives  in  the  heart  of  many  women.  Could  you  not 
shape  something  under  Her  eyes — shape  it  and  colour  it 


1905  407 

with  your  own  inward  life,  and  give  it  all  the  nobler  help 
of  austere  discipline  and  control  which  is  called  art? 
I  have  not  much  to  tell  you  of  myself  just  now.  At  the 
moment  I  do  not  write  to  you  from  the  beloved  west 
where  I  spend  much  of  each  year  and  where  my  thoughts 
and  dreams  continually  are.  Tonight  I  am  tired,  and 
sad,  I  hardly  know  why. 

O  wind,  why  break  in  idle  foam 
This  wave  that  swept  the  seas —  .  .  • 

Foam  is  the  meed  of  barren  dreams, 
And  hearts   that  cry   for   peace. 

Lift  then,  0  wind,  this  heart  of  mine 

And   swirl   aside   in  foam — 
No,  wander   on,  unchanging  heart, 

The  undrowning  deeps  thy  home. 

Less  than  a  billow  of  the  sea 

That  at  the  last  doth  no  more  roam 

Less  than  a  wave,  less  than  a  wave 
This   thing  that   hath   no  home 

This   thing   that   hath  no  grave! 

But  I  shall  weary  you.    Well,  forgive  me.  .  .  . 

The  next  letter  is  to  Mrs.  Helen  Hopekirk,  the  Scot- 
tish-American composer,  who  has  set  several  of  the  F.  M. 
poems  to  music: 

18th  Oct.,  1905. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Hopekirk, 

I  was  very  pleased  to  hear  from  you  again.  I  am  busy 
with  preparations  for  Italy,  for  the  doctors  say  I  should 
be  away  from  our  damp  Scottish  climate  from  October- 
end  till  Spring  comes  again.  How  far  off  it  seems.  .  .  . 
Spring!  Do  you  long  for  it,  do  you  love  its  advent,  as 
I  do?  Wherever  I  am,  St.  Bride's  Day  is  always  for  me 
the  joy-festival  of  the  year — the  day  when  the  real  new 
year  is  born,  and  the  three  dark  months  are  gone,  and 
Spring  leans  across  the  often  gray  and  wet,  but  often 
rainbow-lit,  green-tremulous  horizons  of  February.  This 
year  it  seems  a  longer  way  off  than  hitherto,  and  yet  it 
should  not  be  so — for  I  go  to  Italy,  and  to  friends,  and 


408  WILLIAM    SHARP 

to  beautiful  places  in  the  sun,  there  and  in  Sicily,  and 
perhaps  in  Algeria.  But,  somehow,  I  care  less  for  these 
than  I  did  a  few  years  ago,  than  two  or  three  years  ago, 
than  a  year  ago.  I  think  outward  change  matters  less 
and  less  as  the  imagination  deepens  and  as  the  spirit 
more  and  more  "  turns  westward."  I  love  the  South : 
and  in  much,  and  for  much,  am  happy  there :  but  as  the 
fatally  swift  months  slip  into  the  dark  I  realise  more 
and  more  that  it  is  better  to  live  a  briefer  while  at  a  high 
reach  of  the  spirit  and  the  uplifted  if  overwrought  phys- 
ical part  of  one  than  to  save  the  body  and  soothe  the 
mind  by  the  illusions  of  physical  indolence  and  mental 
leisure  aiforded  by  long  sojourns  in  the  sunlands  of  the 
South.  .  .  . 

How  I  wish  I  knew  LoefiQer  and  Debussy  and  others 
as  you  do:  but  then,  though  I  love  music,  tho'  it  is  one 
of  the  vital  things  in  life  for  me,  I  am  not  a  musician, 
alas.  So  even  if  I  had  all  their  music  beside  me  it  would 
be  like  a  foreign  language  that  must  be  read  in  transla- 
tion. Do  you  realise — I  suppose  you  do — how  fortunate 
you  are  in  being  your  own  interpreter.  Some  day,  how- 
ever, I  hope  to  know  intimately  all  those  wonderful  set- 
tings of  Verlaine  and  Baudelaire  and  Mallarme  and 
others.  The  verbal  music  of  these  is  a  ceaseless  pleasure 
to  me.  I  have  a  great  love  of  and  joy  in  all  later  French 
poetry,  and  can  never  understand  common  attitude  to 
it  here — either  one  of  ignorance,  or  patronage,  or  com- 
plete misapprehension.  Because  of  the  obvious  fact  that 
French  is  not  so  poetic  a  language  as  English  or  Ger- 
man, in  scale,  sonority,  or  richness  of  vocabulary — it  is, 
indeed,  in  the  last  respect  the  poorest  I  believe  of  all 
European  languages  as  English  is  by  far  the  richest — 
people,  and  even  those  who  should  be  better  informed, 
jump  to  the  conclusion  that  therefore  all  French  poetry 
is  artificial  or  monotonously  alike,  or,  at  best,  far  infe- 
rior to  English.  So  far  as  I  can  judge,  finer  poetry  has 
been  produced  in  France  of  late  years  than  in  England, 
and  very  much  finer  than  any  I  know  in  Germany.  How- 
ever, the  habitual  error  of  judgment  is  mainly  due  to 


1905  409 

ignorance:  that,  and  the  all  but  universal  unfamiliarity 
with  French  save  in  its  conventional  usage,  spoken  or 
written.  .  .  . 

"  Fiona  "  received  that  summer,  from  Mr.  Yoni  Nogu- 
chi,  a  volume  entitled  From  the  Eastern  Sea  by  that 
Japanese  author,  and  sent  acknowledgment: 

On  the  Mediterranean. 

Dear  Mr.  Noguchi, 

Your  note  and  delightful  little  book  reached  me,  after 
considerable  delay,  in  southern  Europe.  I  write  this 
at  sea,  and  will  send  it  with  other  letters,  etc.,  to  be 
stamped  and  posted  in  Edinburgh — and  the  two  reasons 
of  delay  will  show  you  that  it  is  not  from  indolence ! 

I  have  read  your  book  with  singular  pleasure.  What 
it  lacks  in  form  (an  inevitable  lack,  in  the  circumstances) 
it  offers  in  essential  poetry.  I  find  atmosphere  and 
charm  and  colour  and  naivete,  and  the  true  touch  of  the 
poet;  and  congratulate  you  on  your  *■  success  of  sugges- 
tion '  in  a  language  so  different  in  all  ways  from  that 
wherein  (I  am  sure  )you  have  already  achieved  the  '  suc- 
cess of  finality.' 

Believe  me,  yours  very  truly, 

Fiona  Macleod. 

Later,  Mr.  Noguchi  sent  his  subsequent  book  The 
Summer  Cloud,  a  collection  of  short  prose-poems,  which, 
as  he  explained  in  his  note  of  presentation :  "  In  fact,  I 
had  been  reading  your  prose-poems.  The  Silence  of 
Amor,  and  wished  I  could  write  such  pieces  myself.  And 
here  is  the  result !  " 

It  was  our  habit,  when  talking  to  one  another  of  the 
"  F.  M."  writings,  to  speak  of  "  Fiona "  as  a  separate 
entity — so  that  we  should  not  be  taken  unawares  if  sud- 
denly spoken  to  about  '  her '  books.  It  was  William's 
habit  also  to  write  and  post  to  himself  two  letters  on 
his  birthday — letters  of  admonition  and  of  new  resolu- 


410  WILLIAM    SHARP 

tions.  On  the  12th  Sep.  1905  he  brought  me  the  two 
birthday  letters  when  they  reached  him,  and  gave  them 
to  me  to  read,  saying,  with  a  smile,  "  Fiona  is  rather  hard 
on  me,  but  she  is  quite  right."  Both  letters  are  in  his 
handwriting  and  are  as  follows: 


Gu    FlONAGHAL    NIC    LeOID 

Sliabhean  n'an  Aisling 
Y-Breasil  (na  Tir-fo-Tuinn) 

An  Domhain  Uaine, 

12th  Sept.,  1905. 

Dearest  Fiona, 

A  word  of  loving  greeting  to  you  on  the  morrow  of  our 
new  year.  All  that  is  best  in  this  past  year  is  due  to 
you,  mo  caraid  dileas :  and  I  hope  and  believe  that  seeds 
have  been  sown  which  will  be  reborn  in  flower  and  fruit 
and  may  be  green  grass  in  waste  places  and  may  even 
grow  to  forests.  I  have  not  always  your  serene  faith 
and  austere  eyes,  dear,  but  I  come  to  much  in  and  thro' 
my  weakness  as  you  through  your  strength.  But  in  this 
past  year  I  realise  I  have  not  helped  you  nearly  as  much 
as  I  could :  in  this  coming  year  I  pray,  and  hope,  it  may 
be  otherwise.  And  this  none  the  less  tho'  I  have  much 
else  I  want  to  do  apart  from  our  work.  But  we'll  be 
one  and  the  same  au  fond  even  then,  shall  we  not,  Fiona 
dear? 

I  am  intensely  interested  in  the  fuller  development  of 
the  Celtic  Trilogy — and  shall  help  in  all  ways.  You  say 
I  can  give  you  what  you  have  not:  well,  I  am  glad  in- 
deed. Together  we  shall  be  good  Sowers,  Fionaghal  mo 
riin:  and  let  us  work  contentedly  at  that.  I  wish  you 
Joy  and  Sorrow,  Peace,  and  Unrest,  and  Leisure,  Sun, 
and  Wind,  and  Eain,  all  of  Earth  and  Sea  and  Sky  in 
this  coining  year.  And  inwardly  dwell  with  me,  so  that 
less  and  less  I  may  fall  short  of  your  need  as  well  as 
your  ideal.  And  may  our  "  Mystic's  Prayer  "  be  true 
for  us  both,  who  are  one. 

Ever  yours,  dear. 

Will. 


1905  411 

12th  Sept.,  1905.  Hills  of  Dream, 

My  dear  Will,  y-Bkeasil. 

Another  birthday  has  come,  and  I  must  frankly  say 
that  apart  from  the  loss  of  another  year,  and  from  what 
the  year  has  brought  you  in  love  and  friendship  and  all 
that  makes  up  life,  it  has  not  been  to  your  credit.  True, 
you  have  been  in  America  and  Italy  and  France  and 
Scotland  and  England  and  Germany — and  so  have  not 
been  long  settled  anywhere — and  true  also  that  for  a 
month  or  two  you  were  seriously  and  for  a  few  months 
partially  ill  or  *  down ' — but  still,  after  all  allowances,  I 
note  not  only  an  extraordinary  indolence  in  effort  as  well 
as  unmistakable  laziness  in  achievement.  Now,  either 
you  are  growing  old  (in  which  case  admit  dotage,  and 
be  done  with  it)  or  else  you  are  permitting  yourself  to 
remain  weakly  in  futile  havens  of  ignoble  repose  or  fret- 
ful pseudo  rest.  You  have  much  to  do,  or  that  you  ought 
to  do,  yourself :  and  as  to  our  collaboration  I  see  no  way 
for  its  continuance  unless  you  will  abrogate  much  of 
what  is  superfluous,  curtail  much  that  can  quite  well  be 
curtailed,  and  generally  serve  me  loyally  as  I  in  my  turn 
allow  for  and  serve  you. 

Let  our  New  Year  be  a  very  different  one  from  the 
last,  dear  friend:  and  let  us  not  only  beautifully  dream 
but  achieve  in  beauty.  Let  the  ignoble  pass,  and  the 
noble  remain. 

Lovingly  yours,  dear  Will, 

Fiona. 

Some  of  his  own  copies  of  his  F.  M.  books  have  an 
inscription  to  "  W.  S."  from  his  twin  seF.  For  instance, 
his  specially  bound  copy  of  The  Winged  Destiny  bears 
this  inscription  in  his  handwriting : 


h 


412  WILLIAM    SHARP 

and  is  dated  12th  Sept.,  1904.  But  William  did  not  write 
or  sign  his  F.  M.  letters  himself.  When  not  typed  by 
him,  they  were  copied  and  signed  for  him  by  his  sister 
Mary,  in  whose  handwriting  is  the  following  signature 
— familiar  to  F.  M.'s  correspondents : 

In  the  beginning  of  October  we  left  London  accom- 
panied by  Miss  Mary  Wilson  and  went  to  Venice  by  way 
of  Zurich  and  Innsbruck.  Then  to  Florence  to  stay  with 
our  friends  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lee  Hamilton,  and  finally,  to 
Sicily. 

Taormina  was  beautifully  sunny  and  restful  as  of 
yore;  and  the  delicate  man  rejoiced  greatly  in  the  beau- 
tiful gardens  that  the  Duke  of  Bronte  was  designing  and 
planting  with  flowers  and  trees,  on  the  slopes  of  the  hill- 
side below  the  town. 

A  letter  reached  him  there  from  Mr.  Hichens : 

St.  Stephen's, 

Oh,  my  dear  Will,  Cantebbuky. 

I  cannot  help  envying  you.  It  is  bitterly  cold  here, 
like  winter,  and  neuralgia  is  flitting  about  my  twitching 
face  and  shrinking  head.  But  I  will  not  inflict  my  little 
woes  upon  you,  and  only  write  this  word  to  say  I  am 
sending  you  my  book  The  Black  Spaniel.  It  is  a  very 
slight  and  mixed  affair  this  time — my  last  book  of  sto- 
ries I  think.  The  new  novel  I  have  some  hopes  of  your 
liking,  as  I  hope  I  have  imprisoned  something  of  our  be- 
loved Sicily  in  it.  Now  I  am  doing  the  last  act — the  last 
to  be  done,  I  mean,  of  my  play  for  Wyndham.  Yes,  we 
will  meet  in  Africa,  if  the  gods  are  kind.  I  expect  to 
leave  England  for  Rome  on  Dec.  3.  I  am  looking  for- 
ward to  Biskra  immensely  but  must  try  to  settle  in  there 
as  m?y,s^  be  working  then.  .  .  .  How  are  you  both  ?  Happy 
in  the  sun  I    All  blessings  upon  you  and  your  work. 

Ever  yours  affectionately, 
1  Roberto. 


1905  413 

It  had  been  planned  that  after  the  New  Year  Mr. 
Hood,  Mr.  Hichens,  my  husband  and  I  should  go  together 
to  Biskra.  But  as  the  autumn  waned,  we  realised  the 
unwisdom  of  making  any  such  plans.  On  hearing  of 
our  reluctant  decision  Mr.  Hichens  wrote: 

A/r  TX7  Nov.,  1905. 

My  dear  Will, 

Your  letter  was  really  a  blow,  but  of  course  I  thor- 
oughly understand  that  you  must  not  risk  sucli  a  journey. 
I  am  grieved  about  your  delicate  health.  You  must  take 
great  care  and  stay  in  places  where  you  can  have  your 
comforts.  I  wish  Rome  suited  you  both.  I  am  suffering 
from  London  dyspepsia.  Today  there  is  a  thick  fog  and 
I  envy  you  all  tremendously.  I  am  counting  the  days 
till  I  can  start  for  Rome.  How  is  Taormina?  Alec  de- 
scribes it  as  warm  and  splendid,  and  pretends  that  he 
needs  a  sun  umbrella  and  a  straw  hat!  Perhaps  you 
are  all  bathing  in  the  sea!  Oh,  these  travellers'  tales! 
I  am  going  out  to  bathe  in  the  fog,  so  au  revoir.  Love 
to  you  both,  kindest  regards  to  Etna  from 

Yours  ever  affectionately, 

Roberto. 

During  one  of  our  visits  to  Maniace  Mr.  Hichens  was 
also  a  guest;  on  a  subsequent  visit  to  that  lava-strewn 
country,  on  the  great  western  slope  of  the  shoulder  of 
Etna,  he  wrote  to  me,  in  1906,  about  my  husband :  "  I 
have  had  many  walks  here  with  Will.  I  think  my  last 
long  walk  with  him  here  was  towards  Maletto.  We 
sat  on  a  rock  for  a  long  while,  looking  at  the  snow  on 
^tna  and  the  wild  country  all  around.  We  talked  about 
death,  and  he  said  he  loved  life  but  he  did  not  fear  death 
at  all.  I  remember  well  how  alive  his  eyes  looked. 
He  always  had  a  very  peculiar  look  of  life  in  the  eyes, 
an  unquenchable  vitality." 

On  reaching  Maniace  W.  S.  wrote  to  a  friend: 

Dec.  4,   1905. 

...  As  my  card  of  yesterday  will  have  told  you  we 
arrived  here  all  right  on  Monday  afternoon,  after  a  won- 


414  WILLIAM    SHARP 

derful  journey.  We  left  Taormina  in  a  glory  of  mid- 
summerlike  warmth  and  beauty — and  we  drove  down 
the  three  miles  of  winding  road  from  Taonnina  to  the 
sea  at  Giardini ;  thence  past  the  bay  and  promontory  of 
Naxos,  and  at  the  site  of  the  ancient  famous  fane  of 
Apollo  Archagetes  turned  inland.  Then  through  the 
myriad  lemon-groves  of  Al  Cantara,  till  we  crossed  the 
gorges  of  the  Fiumefreddo,  and  then  began  the  long  as- 
cent, in  blazing  heat,  by  the  beautiful  hill  road  to  the 
picturesque  mountain-town  of  Piedemonte.  There  we 
caught  the  little  circum-^Etnean  mountain  loop-line,  and 
ascended  the  wild  and  beautiful  slopes  of  Etna.  Last 
time  we  went  we  travelled  mostly  above  the  clouds,  but 
this  time  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  vapour  in  the  radiant 
air,  save  for  the  outriders'  trail  of  white,  occasionally 
flame-coloured,  smoke  from  the  vast  4-mile  wide  mouth 
of  snow-white  and  gigantically-looming  cone  of  Etna. 
At  the  lofty  mediaeval  and  semi-barbaric  town  of  Ran- 
dazzo  we  were  delayed  by  an  excited  crowd  at  the  sta- 
tion, on  account  of  the  arrest  and  bringing  in  by  the 
carabinieri  of  three  chained  and  heavily  manacled  brig- 
ands, one  of  them  a  murderer,  who  evidently  had  the 
sympathy  of  the  populace.  A  woman,  the  wife  of  one 
of  the  captured  men,  outdid  any  lamenting  Irish  woman 
I  ever  saw:  her  frenzy  was  terrible — and  of  course  the 
poor  soul  was  life-desolate  and  probably  punished  and 
would  likely  never  see  her  man  again.  Finally  she  be- 
came distracted  with  despair  and  fury,  and  between  her 
appeals  and  furious  curses  and  almost  maniacal  lamenta- 
tions, the  small  station  was  anything  but  an  agreeable 
stopping  place.  The  captive  brigands  were  absolutely 
impassive :  not  a  glance :  only,  as  the  small  train  puffed 
onward,  one  of  them  lifted  a  manacled  arm  behind  one 
of  the  carabinieri  and  made  a  singular  sign  to  some  one. 
Thereafter  we  passed  into  the  wild  and  terrible  lava- 
lands  of  the  last  frightful  eruption,  between  Randazzo" 
and  the  frontier  of  the  Duchy  of  Bronte:  a  region  as 
wild  and  fantastic  as  anything  imagined  by  Dore,  and 
almost  terrifying  in  its  sombre  deathfulness.    The  great 


MRS.    WILLIAM    SHARP 

From  a  pliotograpli  by  T.  Craig-Aniian,  1909 


1905  415 

and  broad  and  sweeping  mountains,  and  a  mighty  strath 
— and  we  came  under  the  peaked  rocks  of  Maletto,  a 
little  town  standing  3000  feet  high.  Then  the  carriage, 
and  the  armed  escort,  and  we  had  that  wonderful  drive 
thro'  wild  and  beautiful  lands  of  which  I  have  hereto- 
fore written  you.  Then  about  four  we  drove  up  to  the 
gates  of  the  Castle,  and  passed  into  the  great  court  just 
within  the  gates,  and  had  the  cordial  and  affectionate 
welcome  of  our  dear  host. 

A  few  minutes  later  we  were  no  longer  at  an  ancient 
castle  in  the  wilds  of  Sicily,  but  in  a  luxurious  English 
country  house  at  afternoon  tea.  ... 

My  husband  had  taken  with  him,  as  material  for  the 
winter's  work,  his  notes  for  the  Greek  Backgrounds, 
and  the  finished  drafts  of  two  dramas.  One,  by  W.  S., 
was  to  be  called  Persephoncsia,  or  the  Drama  of  the 
House  of  jEtna,  and  of  it  one  act  and  one  scene  had  been 
written  at  Maniace  two  years  before.  It  was  to  have 
been  dedicated  to  The  Duke  of  Bronte.  The  other  drama 
was  Fiona's  projected  play  The  Enchanted  Valleys,  of 
which  one  scene  only  was  written.  But  he  felt  unable 
for  steady  work,  as  the  following  letter  to  the  same 
friend,  shows: 

...  A  single  long  letter  means  no  work  for  me  that 
day,  and  the  need  of  work  terribly  presses,  and  in 
every  way,  alas.  My  hope  that  I  might  be  able  for 
some  writing  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  especially  from  5 
to  7.30  is  at  present  futile.  I  simply  can't.  Yesterday  I 
felt  better  and  more  mentally  alert  than  I've  done  since 
I  came,  and  immediately  after  afternoon  tea,  I  came  to 
my  study  and  tried  to  work,  but  could  not,  though  I  had 
one  of  my  nature  articles  begun  and  beside  me :  nor  had 
I  spirit  to  take  up  my  reviews:  then  I  thought  I  could 
at  least  get  some  of  that  wearisome  accumulated  corre- 
spondence worked  off,  but  a  mental  nausea  seized  me,  so 
that  even  a  written  chat  to  a  friend  seemed  to  me  too 
exhausting.    C'est  cette  maladie  poignante,  ce  "  degout 


416  WILLIAM    SHARP 

de  la  plume,"  que  Tourgenieff  (ou  Flaubert?)  parlait  de 
son  coeur  frappe.  So  I  collapsed,  and  dreamed  over  a 
strange  and  fascinating  ancient-world  book  by  Licbten- 
berger,  and  then  dreamed  idly,  watching  the  flaming  oak- 
logs." 

In  William's  Diaiy  for  December  there  are  the  follow- 
ing entries : 

1st.  Friday.  Wrote  the  short  poem  "  When  greenness 
comes  again."  Eead  Zola's  wearisome  "  His  Excellency 
Eugene  Rougon,"  and  in  the  evening  the  "  Jupiter  "  and 
"  Saturn "  chapters  in  Proctor's  "  Otherworlds  Than 
Ours." 

2d.  Saty.  Read  and  took  notes  and  thought  out  my 
Country  Life  article  on  "  At  the  Turn  of  the  Year."  Also 
incidentally  "  The  Clans  of  the  Rush,  the  Reed,  and  the 
Fern,"  and  one  to  be  called  "  White  Weather  "  (snow, 
the  wild  goose  and  the  wild  swan).  Alec  and  I  walked 
to  the  Boschetto.  Began  (about  1300  words)  "At  the 
Turn  of  the  Year." 

3rd.  Sunday.  A  stormy  and  disagreeable  day.  Wrote 
long  letters.  In  afternoon  felt  too  tired  and  too  sleepy 
to  work  or  even  to  write  letters :  so  sat  before  the  fire 
in  my  study  and  partly  over  that  fascinating  book  I 
love  often  to  recur  to  for  a  few  pages,  Lichtenberger's 
Centaures,  and  partly  in  old  dreams  of  my  own,  it  was 
7.30  and  time  to  dress  before  I  knew  it.  Heard  today 
from  Ernest  Rhys  about  the  production  of  his  and  Vin- 
cent Thomas'  Opera  Guinevere.  Thought  over  an  old 
world  book  to  be  called  Beyond  the  Foam. 

Dec.  4th.  In  the  forenoon  began  again  and  wrote 
first  thousand  words  of  "  At  the  Turn  of  the  Year." 
At  3  went  to  drive  with  Elizabeth  along  the  Balzo  to 
near  the  Lake  of  Garrida. 

Dec.  5.  Tuesday.  In  forenoon  wrote  the  remaining 
and  large  half  of  "  At  the  Turn  of  the  Year " ;  re- 
vised the  whole  of  it  and  posted  it  to  Mary,  with  long 
letter. 


1905  417 

In  afternoon  a  drive,  despite  the  wet  and  inclement 
weather,  np  to  Maletto.  I  walked  back.  A  lovely,  if 
unsettled  sunset  of  blue  and  gold,  purple  brown,  ame- 
thyst, and  delicate  cinnamon.  A  marvellous  light  on 
the  hills.  Luminous  mist  instead  of  cloud  as  of  late. 
For  the  first  time  have  seen  the  Sicilian  Highlands  with 
the  beauty  of  Scotland. 

From  10  till  11.30  p.m.  worked  at  notes  for  "  White 
Weather  "  article. 

Dec.  6.  Wed.  In  the  forenoon  worked  at  Gaelic  mate- 
rial partly  for  articles,  partly  for  other  things.  But 
not  up  to  writing.  There  is  a  sudden  change  to  an  April- 
like heat:  damply-hot;  though  fine:  very  trying,  all  feel 
it.  After  lunch  walked  up  the  north  heights  with  Alec, 
then  joined  E.  and  D.  L.  in  carriage  and  drove  up  past 
Otaheite  to  the  Saw-Mills.  Lovely  air,  gorgeous  windy 
sky  in  the  west,  and  superb  but  thunderous  clouds  in  S. 
and  E.  Another  bad  change  I  fear.  Etna  rose  gigantic 
as  we  ascended  Otaheite-way,  and  from  Serraspina 
looked  like  an  immense  Phantom  with  a  vast  plume  of 
white  smoke. 

In  afternoon  (from  5.30  till  7.30)  wrote  1200  words  of 
"  White  Weather." 

Thursday.  7th.  This  morning  fresh  and  bright  and 
clear,  a  welcome  change  from  these  recent  days — with 
the  Beechwoods  all  frosted  with  snow.  The  Simeto 
swollen  to  a  big  rushing  river. 

Worked  at  and  finished  the  latter  part  of  "  White 
Weather,"  and  then  revised  and  sent  off  to  Mary  to  for- 
ward with  note  to  Country  Life.  Also  other  letters. 
Turned  out  the  wettest  and  worst  afternoon  we've  had 
yet,  and  return  of  severe  thunderstorm. 

Dec.  8.  Friday.  A  fine  morning  but  very  doubtful  if 
yet  settled.  Went  out  and  was  taken  by  Beek  to  see  the 
observatory  instruments  and  wind-registers  and  seismo- 
graphs. Then  took  the  dogs  for  a  walk,  as  "  off "  work 
today. 

Wrote  a  long  letter  to  Eobert  Hichens,  also  to  E.  L.  S. 
Also,  with  poem  "  When  Greenness  comes  again "  by 


418  WILLIAM    SHARP 

W.  S.  to  C.  Morley  Pall  Mall  Magazine.  In  afternoon 
we  had  a  lovely  drive  up  above  the  Alcantara  Valley 
along  the  mountain  road  toward  Cesaro." 

And  here  the  Diary  ends,  and  here  too  ends  the  writ- 
ten work  of  a  tired  hand  and  brain,  but  of  an  eager 
outlooking  spirit.  Ever  since  we  left  London  it  was  evi- 
dent that  his  life  forces  were  on  the  ebb-tide  slowly  but 
surely;  and  he  knew  it,  but  concerned  himself  little,  and 
believed  he  had  at  any  rate  a  few  months  before  him 
and  possibly  a  whole  year.  Yet  he  seemed  to  have  an 
inner  knowledge  of  what  was  to  be.  In  Scotland,  in  the 
summer,  he  told  me  it  would  be  his  last  visit  there ;  that 
he  knew  it,  and  had  said  farewell  to  his  mother.  On 
the  afternoon  when  we  drove  up  to  the  Saw- Mills  in  the 
oak-woods  he  got  out  of  the  carriage  and  wandered 
among  the  trees.  When  I  urged  him  to  come  away, 
as  the  light  was  waning  rapidly,  he  touched  the  trees 
again  and  again  and  said,  "  Ah  dear  trees  of  the  North, 
dear  trees  of  the  North,  goodbye."  The  drive  on  the 
8th,  so  beautiful,  to  him  so  full  of  fascination,  was  fatal 
to  him.  We  drove  far  along  a  mountain  pass  and  at  the 
furthest  point  stopped  to  let  him  look  at  the  superb 
sunset  over  against  the  hillset  town  of  Cesaro. 

He  seemed  wrapt  in  thought  and  looked  long  and  stead- 
fastly at  the  wonderful  glowing  light;  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  I  persuaded  him  to  let  us  return.  On  the 
way  back,  a  sudden  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  in  face 
to  the  snow  covered  cone  of  ^tna.  The  wind  had  changed 
and  blew  with  cutting  cold  straight  off  the  snow.  It 
struck  him,  chilling  him  through  and  through.  Half  way 
back  he  got  out  of  the  carriage  to  walk  and  get  warm. 
But  the  harm  was  done.  That  evening,  before  dinner, 
he  said  to  me :  "  I  am  going  to  talk  as  much  as  I  can  to- 
night. That  dear  fellow  Alec  is  rather  depressed.  Tve 
teased  him  a  good  deal  today;  now  I  am  going  to  amuse 
him."  He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  anecdote,  reminis- 
cence, followed  one  another  told  in  the  gayest  of  spirits, 
and  in  saying  goodnight  to  me  our  host  declared,  "  I  have 


1905  419 

never  heard  Will  more  brilliant  than  he  has  been  to- 
night." 

The  next  morning  my  husband  complained  of  pain 
which  grew  rapidly  more  severe.  The  doctor  was  sent 
for,  and  remained  in  the  house. 

On  the  morning  of  the  12th — a  day  of  wild  storm,  wind, 
thunder  and  rain — he  recognised  that  nothing  could 
avail.  With  characteristic  swiftness  he  turned  his  eager 
mind  from  the  life  that  was  closing  to  the  life  of  greater 
possibilities  that  he  knew  awaited  him.  About  3  o'clock, 
with  his  devoted  friend  Alec  Hood  by  his  side,  he  sud- 
denly leant  forward  with  shining  eyes  and  exclaimed  in 
a  tone  of  joyous  recognition,  "  Oh,  the  beautiful  '  Green 
Life '  again ! "  and  the  next  moment  sank  back  in  my 
arms  with  the  contented  sigh,  "  Ah,  all  is  well." 

On  the  14th,  in  an  hour  of  lovely  sunshine,  the  body 
was  laid  to  rest  in  a  little  woodland  burial-ground  on  the 
hillside  within  sound  of  the  Simeto ;  as  part  of  the  short 
service,  his  own  "  Invocation  to  Peace,"  from  The  Do- 
minion of  Dreams,  was  read  over  the  grave  by  the  Duke 
of  Bronte.  Later,  an  Zona  cross,  carved  in  lava,  was 
placed  there,  and  on  it  this  inscription,  chosen  by  him- 
self: 

Farewell  to  the  known  and  exhausted, 
Welcome  the  unknown  and  illimitable 

and 

Love  is  more  great  than  we  conceive,  and  Death  is  the  keeper 
of  unknown  redemptions.  F.  M. 


Nolo,  truly,  is  Dreamland  no  longer  a  pJiantasy  of  sleep, 
hut  a  loveliness  so  great  that,  like  deep  music,  there  could 
be  no  words  wherewith  to  measure  it,  hut  only  the  hreathless 
unspoken  speech  of  the  soul  upon  whom  has  fallen  the  secret 
dews:  F.  M. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

CONCLUSION 

"  How  the  man  subdivided  his  soul  is  the  mystery," 
wrote  Mr.  James  Douglas.  And  in  trying  to  suggest  an 
answer  I  would  say  with  "  F.  M." — "  I  write,  not  because 
I  know  a  mystery  and  would  reveal  it,  but  because  I 
have  known  a  mystery,  and  am  to-day  as  a  child  before 
it,  and  can  neither  reveal  nor  interpret  it."  For  that 
mystery  concerns  the  evolution  of  a  human  soul;  and 
the  part  of  it  for  which  '  the  man '  is  consciously  and 
personally  responsible,  is  the  method  he  used,  the  fiction 
he  created  and  deliberately  fostered, — rightly  or  wrongly 
— for  the  protection  of  his  inner,  compelling  self. 

This  deliberate  '  blind ' — which  according  to  some 
critics  "  is  William  Sharp's  most  notable  achievement  in 
fiction  rather  than  the  creation  of  any  of  '  her '  works  " — 
is  largely  the  cause  of  the  sense  of  confusion  that  exists 
in  the  minds  of  certain  of  his  friends,  to  whom  he  told  the 
half  but  not  the  whole  of  the  facts.  He  purposely  did  not 
dispel  the  idea  of  a  collaborator,  an  idea  which  grew  out 
of  the  half  veiled  allusions  he  had  made  concerning  the 
friend  of  whom  I  have  written,  whose  vivid  personality 
appealed  so  potently  to  a  phase  of  his  complex  nature, 
and  stirred  his  imagination  as  no  one  else  had  done. 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  signed  "  Fiona  Macleod," 
and  written  in  1899,  about  herself  and  her  friend  (namely 
himself)  William  tried  "  as  far  as  is  practicable  in  a 
strange  and  complex  manner  to  be  explicit."  '  She ' 
stated  that, "  all  the  formative  and  expressional  as  well  as 
nearly  all  the  visionary  power  is  my  friends.  In  a  sense 
only  his  is  the  passive  part,  but  it  is  the  allegory  of  the 
match,  the  wind,  and  the  torch.  Everything  is  in  the 
torch  in  readiness,  and  as  you  know,  there  is  nothing  in 
the  match  itself.    But  there  is  a  mysterious  latency  of  fire 

421 


422  WILLIAM    SHARP 

between  them  .  .  .  the  little  touch  of  silent  igneous  po- 
tency at  the  end  of  the  match — and  in  what  these  sym- 
bolise, one  adds  spiritual  affinity  as  a  factor — and  all  at 
once  the  flame  is  born.  The  torch  says  all  is  due  to  the 
match.  The  match  knows  the  flame  is  not  hers.  But  be- 
yond both  is  the  wind,  the  spiritual  air.  Out  of  the 
unseen  world  it  fans  the  flame.  In  that  mysterious  air 
both  the  match  and  the  flame  hear  strange  voices.  The 
air  that  came  at  the  union  of  both  is  sometimes  Art, 
sometimes  Genius,  sometimes  Imagination,  sometimes 
Life,  sometimes  the  Spirit.    It  is  all. 

"  But  before  that  flame  peojDle  wonder  and  admire. 
Most  wonder  only  at  the  torch.  A  few  look  for  the 
match  beyond  the  torch,  and  finding  her  are  apt  to  at- 
tribute to  her  that  which  is  not  hers,  save  as  a  spiritual 
dynamic  agent.  Now  and  then  the  match  may  have  in 
petto  the  qualities  of  the  torch — particularly  memory  and 
vision :  and  so  can  stimulate  and  amplify  the  imaginative 
life  of  the  torch.  But  the  torch  is  at  once  the  pas- 
sive, the  formative,  the  mnemonic,  and  the  artistically 
and  imaginatively  creative  force.  He  knows  that  in  one 
sense  he  would  be  flameless  or  at  least  without  that  ideal 
blend  of  the  white  and  the  red — without  the  match:  and 
he  knows  that  the  flame  is  the  offspring  of  both,  that  the 
wind  has  many  airs  in  it,  and  that  one  of  the  most  potent 
is  that  which  blows  from  the  life  and  mind  and  soul  of 
'  the  match  ' — ^but  in  his  heart  he  knows  that,  to  all  others, 
he  and  he  alone  is  the  flame,  his  alone  both  the  visionary, 
the  formative,  the  expressional." 

At  the  last,  realising  with  deep  regret  that  one  or  two 
of  the  friends  he  cared  greatly  for  would  probably  feel 
hurt  when  they  should  know  of  the  deception,  he  left 
the  following  note  to  be  sent  to  each  immediately  on  the 
disclosure  of  the  secret : 

"  This  will  reach  you  after  my  death.  You  will  think 
I  have  wholly  deceived  you  about  Fiona  Macleod.  But, 
in  an  intimate  sense  this  is  not  so:  though  (and  inevita- 
bly) in  certain  details  I  have  misled  you.     Only,  it  is  a 


CONCLUSION  423 

mystery.    I  cannot  explain.    Perhaps  you  will  intuitively 

understand  or  may  come  to  understand.     "  The  rest  is 

silence."    Farewell.  Txr  q 

William  kShaep. 

It  is  only  right,  however,  to  add  that  I,  and  I  only, 
was  the  author — in  the  literal  and  literary  sense — of  all 
written  under  the  name  of  "  Fiona  Macleod." 

In  watching  the  development  of  the  "  Fiona  Macleod  " 
phase  of  expression  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  writer, 
in  that  work,  lived  a  new  sequent  life,  and  passed  through 
its  successive  phases  of  growth  and  development  inde- 
pendently of  the  tenor  of  his  ordinary  life  as  "  W.  S." 
He  passed  from  the  youth  in  Pharais  and  The  Mountain 
Lovers,  through  the  mature  manhood  of  The  Barbaric 
Tales  and  Tragic  Romances  to  the  greater  serenity  of 
later  contemplative  life  in  The  Divine  Adventure,  The 
Winged  Destiny  and  Where  the  Forest  Murmurs. 

In  surveying  the  dual  life  as  a  whole  I  have  seen  how, 
from  the  early  partially  realised  twin-ship,  "  W.  S."  was 
the  first  to  go  adventuring  and  find  himself,  while  his 
twin,  "  F.  M.,"  remained  passive,  or  a  separate  self. 
When  "  she  "  awoke  to  active  consciousness  "  she  "  be- 
came the  deeper,  the  more  impelling,  the  more  essential 
factor.  By  reason  of  this  severance,  and  of  the  acute 
conflict  that  at  times  resulted  therefrom,  the  flaming  of 
the  dual  life  became  so  fierce  that  "  Wilfion " — as  I 
named  the  inner  and  third  Self  that  lay  behind  that  dual 
expression — realised  the  imperativeness  of  gaining  con- 
trol over  his  two  separated  selves  and  of  bringing  them 
into  some  kind  of  conscious  harmony.  This  was  what  he 
meant  when  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Janvier  in  1899,  "  I  am  go- 
ing through  a  new  birth." 

For,  though  the  difference  between  the  two  literary  ex- 
pressions was  so  marked,  there  was,  nevertheless,  a 
special  characteristic  of  "  Wilfion  "  that  linked  the  dual 
nature  together — the  psychic  quality  of  seer  ship  if  I  may 
so  call  it.  Not  only  did  he,  as  F.  M.  "  dream  dreams  " 
and  "  get  in  touch  with  the  ancient  memory  of  the  race  " 


424  WILLIAM    SHAEP 

as  some  of  *  her '  critics  have  said ;  but  as  W.  S.  he 
also  saw  visions  by  means  of  that  seership  with  which 
he  had  been  dowered  from  childhood.  And  though,  lat- 
terly, he  gave  expression  to  it  only  under  shelter  of  the 
Fiona  Macleod  writings — as  for  instance  in  The  Divine 
Adventure,  because  he  was  as  sensitive  about  it  as  he 
was  to  the  subtler,  more  imaginative  side  of  his  dual 
self — a  few  of  his  friends  knew  William  Sharp  as  psychic 
and  mystic,  who  knew  nothing  of  him  as  Fiona  Macleod. 

I  have  said  little  concerning  my  husband  as  a  psychic ; 
a  characteristic  that  is  amply  witnessed  to  in  his  writ- 
ings. From  time  to  time  he  interested  himself  in  definite 
psychic  experimentation,  occasionally  in  collaboration 
with  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats;  experimentation  that  sometimes 
resulted  in  such  serious  physical  disturbance  that  he 
desisted  from  it  in  later  years. 

In  a  lecture  given  by  Mr.  Yeats  to  the  Aberdeen  Centre 
of  the  Franco-Scottish  Society  in  1907  the  Irish  poet 
referred  to  his  friend.  He  considered  that  "  Sharp  had  in 
many  ways  an  extraordiuarily  primitive  mind.  He  was 
fond  of  speaking  of  himself  as  the  representative  of  the 
old  bards,"  and  the  Irish  poet  thought  there  was  really 
something  in  the  claim.  (In  a  letter  Mr.  Yeats  had  ex- 
pressed his  opinion  that  my  husband  was  imaginative 
in  "the  old  and  literal  sense  of  image-making;  not 
like  a  man  of  this  age  at  all.")  He  continued  that 
W.  S.  was  the  most  extraordinary  psychic  he  had  ever 
encountered.  He  really  believed  that  "  Fiona  Mac- 
leod was  a  secondary  personality — as  distinct  a  sec- 
ondary personality  as  those  one  reads  about  in  books 
of  psychical  research.  At  times  he  (W.  S.)  was  really 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  different  being."  He 
would  "  come  and  sit  down  by  my  fireside  and  talk,  and 
I  believe  that  when  '  Fiona  Macleod '  left  the  house  he 
would  have  no  recollection  of  what  he  had  been  say- 
ing to  me." 

It  is  true,  as  I  have  said,  that  William  Sharp  seemed 
a  different  person  when  the  Fiona  mood  was  on  him;  but 
that  he  had  no  recollection  of  what  he  said  in  that  mood 


CONCLUSION  425 

was  not  the  case.  That  he  did  not  understand  it,  is  true. 
For  that  mood  could  not  be  commanded  at  will.  Differ- 
ent influences  awakened  it,  and  its  duration  depended 
largely  on  environment.  "  W.  S."  could  set  himself 
deliberately  to  work  normally,  and  was,  so  far,  master 
of  his  mind.  But  for  the  expression  of  the  "  F.  M." 
self  he  had  to  wait  upon  mood,  or  seek  conditions  to  in- 
duce it.  But,  as  I  have  said,  the  psychic,  visionary  power 
belonged  exclusively  to  neither;  it  influenced  both,  and 
was  dictated  by  laws  he  did  not  fully  understand.  For 
instance,  "  Lilith,"  "  The  Whisperer,"  "  Finis,"  by  W.  S. 
and  "  The  Woman  with  the  Net,"  "  The  Last  Supper," 
"  The  Lynn  of  Dreams  "  by  F.  M.,  were  equally  the  re- 
sult of  direct  vision. 

I  remember  from  early  days  how  he  would  speak  of 
the  momentary  curious  "  dazzle  in  the  brain  "  which  pre- 
ceded the  falling  away  of  all  material  things  and  pre- 
luded some  inner  vision  of  Great  Beauty,  or  Great  Pres- 
ences, or  of  some  symbolic  import — that  would  pass  as 
rapidly  as  it  came.  I  have  been  beside  him  when  he 
has  been  in  trance  and  I  have  felt  the  room  throb  with 
heightened  vibration.  I  regret  now  that  I  never  wrote 
down  such  experiences  at  the  time.  They  were  not 
infrequent,  and  formed  a  definite  feature  in  our  life. 
There  are,  however,  two  or  three  dream-visions  belonging 
to  his  last  summer  that  I  recollect.  Two  he  had  noted 
down  in  brief  sentences  for  future  use.    One  was : 

"  The  Lily  of  the  World,  and  its  dark  concave,  dark 
with  excess  of  light  and  the  stars  falling  like  slow  rain." 

The  other  is  headed  "  Elemental  Symbolism,"  "  I  saw 
Self,  or  Life,  symbolised  all  about  me  as  a  limitless, 
fathomless  and  lonely  sea.  I  took  a  handful  and  threw 
it  into  the  grey  silence  of  ocean  air,  and  it  returned  at 
once  as  a  swift  and  potent  flame,  a  red  fire  crested  with 
blown  sunrise,  rushing  from  between  the  lips  of  sky  and 
sea  to  the  sound  as  of  innumerable  trumpets." 

One  morning  he  told  me  that  during  sleep  he  had  vis- 
ited a  city  of  psychic  mechanism.  In  a  huge  building  he 
had  seen  this  silent  mechanism  at  work ;  he  had  watched 


426  WILLIAM    SHARP 

a  force  plunge  into  molten  metal  and  produce  a  shaped 
vessel  therefrom.  He  could  see  nothmg  that  indicated 
by  what  power  the  machinery  was  driven.  He  asked  his 
guide  for  exj^lanation,  and  he  was  led  along  passages 
to  a  small  room  with  many  apertures  in  the  walls,  like 
speaking  tubes.  In  the  centre  was  a  table,  on  a  chair 
sat  a  man  with  his  arm  on  the  table,  his  head  in  his 
hand.  Pointing  to  him  the  guide  said  "  His  thought  is 
the  motive  force." 

In  another  dream  he  visited  a  land  where  there  was  no 
more  war,  where  all  men  and  women  were  equal;  where 
humans,  birds  and  beasts  were  no  longer  at  enmity,  or 
preyed  on  one  another.  And  he  was  told  that  the  young 
men  of  the  land  had  to  serve  two  years  as  missionaries  to 
those  who  lived  at  the  uttermost  boundaries,  "  To  what 
end?  "  he  asked.  "  To  cast  out  fear,  our  last  enemy." 
The  dream  is  too  long  to  quote  in  its  entirety,  for  it 
spread  over  two  nights,  but  one  thing  impressed  him 
greatly.  In  the  house  of  his  host  he  was  struck  by  the 
beauty  of  a  framed  painting  that  seemed  to  vibrate  with 
rich  colour.  "Who  i^ainted  that?"  he  asked.  "His 
host  smiled,  "We  have  long  ceased  to  use  brushes  and 
paints.  That  is  a  thought  projected  from  the  artist's 
brain,  and  its  duration  will  be  proportionate  with  its 
truth." 

Once  again  he  saw  in  waking  vision  those  Divine  Forges 
he  had  sought  in  childhood.  On  the  verge  of  the  Great 
Immensity  that  is  beyond  the  confines  of  space,  he  saw 
Great  Spirits  of  Fire  standing  at  flaming  anvils.  And 
they  lifted  up  the  flames  and  moulded  them  on  the  anvils 
into  shapes  and  semblances  of  men,  and  the  Great  Spirits 
took  these  flaming  shapes  and  cast  them  forth  into  space, 
so  that  they  should  become  the  souls  of  men. 

He  was,  as  Mrs.  Mona  Caird  has  truly  said  of  him, 
"  almost  encumbered  by  the  infinity  of  his  perceptions ; 
by  the  thronging  interests,  intuitions,  glimpses  of  won- 
ders, beauties  and  mysteries  which  made  life  for  him  a 
pageant  and  a  splendour  such  as  is  only  disclosed  to  the 
soul  that  has  to  bear  the  torment  and  the  revelations  of 


CONCLUSION  427 

genius.  He  had  much  to  suffer,  but  in  spite  of  that — 
perhaps  partly  because  of  that — be  was  able  to  bring  to 
all  a  great  sense  of  sunshine  and  boyish  freshness,  of  joy 
in  life  and  nature  and  art,  and  in  the  adventure  and  ro- 
mance of  it  all,  for  those  who  knew  how  to  dare  enough 
to  go  to  meet  it  with  open  hands.  He  gave  ever  the 
sense  of  new  power,  new  thresholds,  new  realms.  His 
friendship  was  a  spiritual  possession."  And  though  in- 
deed, as  Mr.  Frank  Binder  has  written  "  there  may  be 
those  inclined  to  censure  William  Sharp  for  his  silence 
about  Fiona  Macleod,  yet,  probably,  had  the  world  known, 
'  she ' — for  in  thought  it  is  always  that — would  have  writ- 
ten no  more.  May  we  not  remember  Ossian  and  others 
who  shrank  from  revealing  to  all  their  secret?  .  .  .1  can 
but  bear  testimony  to  the  ever-ready  and  eager  sympathy, 
to  the  sunny  winsomeness,  to  the  nobility  of  the  soul 
that  has  passed.  William  Sharp  was  one  of  the  most 
lovable,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  our  time." 

And,  I  would  add, — to  quote  my  husband's  own  words 
— ever,  below  all  the  stress  and  failure,  below  all  the 
triumph  of  his  toil,  lay  the  beauty  of  his  dream. 


To  live  in  beauty — which  is  to  put  into  four  words  all 
the  dream  and  spiritual  effort  of  the  soul  of  man. 

F.M. 


INDEX 


Alden,  H.  W.,  217. 

Allen,     Grant,     311.     See    Letters. 
Visit  to,  317. 

Algiers,  208  et  seq. 

America,  Visits  to,  93,  149,  273,  393. 

Art-Critic,  W.  S.  as,  79. 

Articles : 

By  William  Sharp,  In  the  Days 
of  My  Youth,  10;  Through  Bush 
and  Fern,  22;  Etrurian  Cities,  93; 
Victor  Hugo,  58;  "Marius  the 
Epicurean,"      104;  "Under- 

woods," 138;  "In  Hospital,"  139; 
Balzac,  16;  "American  Litera- 
ture," 165;  "D'Annunzio,"  165, 
325;  PhiHp  Marston,  198;  Maeter- 
linck, 198;  Thomas  Hardy,  199; 
March  of  Rome  in  North  Africa, 
208;  La  Jeune  Belgique,  216; 
Hotel  of  the  Beautiful  Star,  240; 
Christina  Rossetti,  240;  The  Im- 
pressionist, 326;  Contemporary 
Italian  Poetry,  343;  Through 
Nelson's  Dutchy,  357,  358. 
By  Fiona  Macleod,  A  Group  of 
Celtic  Writers,  304;  Celtic,  320; 
Contemporary  Breton  Liter- 
ature, 315;  The  Gael  and  His 
Heritage,  325;  On  W.  B.  Yeats, 
345 

Athens,  375,  379. 

Austin,  Alfred,  119,  126. 

Australia,  22. 

Alywin,  105,  302. 

Bank,  City  of  Melbourne,  27,  53. 

Barbaric  Tales,  268. 

Bax,  Belford,  32. 

Blind,  Mathilde,  51.     See  Letters. 

Bordighera,  339. 

Bourget,  Paul,  95,  96. 

Bronte,  Duke  of.    See  Hon.  Alex.  N. 

Hood,  C.  V.  O. 
Brooke,  Stopford  A.,  75. 
"Brooks,  William  H."  204. 
Brown,  Ford  Madox,  51. 
Browning,  Monograph  on,  161,  162, 

163. 
Browning,  Robert,  51,  65,  158. 
Buchanan,  Robert,  26. 

Caine,  T.  Hall,  40,  41. 
Caird,  Mrs.  Mona,  26,  38;  On  Mar- 
riage, 14,  21,  162;  Visit  to,  168. 

See  Letters. 


Canada,  150-153. 

Carman,  Bliss,  151. 

Celtic   Movement,  The,  256  et  seq. 

277,  304,  305. 
Chapbook,  "Sharp  Number,"  239. 
Children  of  Tomorrow,    The,  135    et 

seq. 
Chorleywood,  311. 
Civil     Pension     List     and     "Fiona 

Macleod,"    345-348. 
Clodd,  Edward,  246,  247. 
Corbett,  Julian,  181. 
Cotterell,  George,  215,  273. 
Cotton,  James,  104. 
Courtney,  W.  L.,  318. 
Craik,  Mrs.,  Author  of  John  Halifax, 

41. 
Credo,  241. 

Diaries,  160;  Life  of  Rossetti,  64,  78; 
Florence,  79-81,  90;  Rome,  1890, 
82-87;  The  Severn  Journals,  185; 
Rome  and  Italj-,  173;  A  Fellotce 
and  His  Wife,  186  et  seq.;  The 
Pagan  Review,  102  et  seq.; 
Pharais,  221;  "F.  M.,"  266; 
Riviera,  324;  Taormina,  1903, 
356;  Maniace,  416-418. 

Divine  Adventure,  The,  19,  314  et 
seq. 

Dominion  of  Dreams,  The,  304  et  seq. 

Douglas,  Sir  George,  253. 

Dowden,  Edward,  73,  137. 

Dramas :  A  Fellowe  and  His  Wife,  186; 
The  House  of  Usna,  317;  The 
Immortal  Hour,  317. 

Dramatic  Interludes,  190. 

Earth's  Voices,  76,  97. 

Ecce  Puella,  242,  248,  251,  252. 

Edinburgh,  Sim:imer  Meeting,  249- 

250. 
Elder,  Adelaide,  25,  35. 
Elder,  Alexander,  27. 
Elder,  John,  29. 

Emerson,  Poem  on  the  Death  of,  76. 
Evergreen,  The,  268. 

Fair  Women  in  Poetry  and  Painting, 

252. 
Felibres,  Les,  327. 

Fellowe  and  His  Wife,  A,  170  et  seq. 
"Fiona  Macleod."     See  Macleod. 
Flower  o'  the  Vine,  205. 
Four  Winds  of  the  Spirit,  The,  9. 


429 


430 


WILLIAM   SHARP 


From  the  Hills  of  Dream,  259,  272, 
279  et  seq.;  American  Edition, 
333-334. 

Francillon,  51. 

Garnett,  L.L.D.,  C.B.,  Richard,  140, 

143,  376. 
Geddes,  Prof.  Patrick,  248-250. 
Goodchild,   Doctor  John,  339,  381. 

S\pfi  Lpf  tprfl 

Gilchrist,     R.     Murray,     240.    See 

Letters. 
Gilchrist,  Mrs.     See  Letters. 
Gipsy  Christ,  The,  240,  261. 
Glasgow  Herald,  The,  79,  93. 
Great  Oaks,  166. 
Green  Fire,  14,  259,  266,  et  seq. 

Hampstead,  Residence  in,  139,  141, 

231. 
Hardy,  Arthur  Sherburne,  261-262. 
Harland,  Henry,  160. 
Hardy,  Thomas.    See  Letters;  Visit 

to,  324. 
Heine,  Monograph  on,  142-145. 
Henley,  W.  E.     See  Letters. 
Hichens,  Robert,  353.     See  Letters. 
Highland  News,  The,  257, 261. 
Hinkson,  Mrs.  K.  Tynan,  238,  257. 
Holroyd,   Sir   Charles,    176;   etched 

portrait  by,  179. 
Hood,  C.  V.  O.,  Hon.  Alex.  Nelson, 

331,    339,    345-346,    358.    See 

Letters. 
Hopekirk,  Mrs.  Helen,  407. 
House  of  Usna,  The,  performance  of, 

310,  317-318. 
Howard,  Blanche  Willis,  170. 
Howells,  W.  D.,  92. 
Human  hiheritance,  The,  72. 

Immortal  Hour,  The,  310. 
lona,  236,  237. 

James,  Henry,  quoted  53,  338-339. 
Janvier,  Mrs.  C.  A.    ,  ee  Letters. 
Janvier,  Thomas  A.     See  Letters. 

King's  Ring,  The,  35  3,  357. 

Laughter  of  Peterkin,  The,  279  et  seq. 
Le  Braz,  Anatole,  315. 
Lectures  at  Edinburgh,  251. 
Letters  : 

From  WiUiam  Sharp  to 

Alden  H.  M.,  369. 

Caird,  Mrs.  Mona,  38. 

Clodd,  Edward,  246. 

Elder,  Miss  A.  L.,  35. 

Elder,  John,  29. 

"F.  M.,"410. 

Friend,  to  a:  Algiers,  208  et  seq.; 


On  Style,  361;  G.  Meredith, 
367,  382;  The  Winged  Destiny, 
382;  Glastonbury,  385;  Mani- 
ace,  413-414. 

Friends,  To  One  or  Two,  422. 

Gilchrist,  Mrs.,  372. 

Gilchrist,  R.  Murray;  The  Pagan 
Review,  205;  Personal,  234, 
260,  261;  "F.  M.,"  312,  316; 
Stage  Society,  324. 

Goodchild,  Dr.  John,  340,  403. 

Hood,  C.  V.  O.,  Hon.  Alex.  Nel- 
son, Civil  Reunion,  346;  JuU- 
an,  348;  Adria,  354,  371;  Shan 
Shan  Bor,  355;  Athens,  375, 
379;  Neuenahr,  399. 

Janvier,  Mrs.  C.  A.,  170;  Aries, 
182;  On  Criticism,  185;  Stutt- 
gart, 186,  193;  Pharais,  224, 
226;  Greek  War,  283-284;  New 
Birth,  292;  Pettycur,  300;  Ire- 
land, 311;  Taormina,  328,  342, 
349,  362;  Illness,  369;  at  Sea, 
372;  LePuy,379. 

Janvier,  Thomas  A.,  159,  195. 

Macleay,  John,  314,  325. 

Maesfield,  John,  403. 

Macleod,  Fiona,  410. 

Philpott,  Mrs.,  Henry  James, 
338;  Taormina,  341;  Maniace, 
374-375. 

Rinder,  Frank,  Dominion  of 
Dreams,  306;  Divine  Adven- 
tures,\Zib. 

Robertson,  Rev.  Eric  S.,  124. 

Robertson,  W.  J.,  395-396. 

Rossetri,  D.  G.,  38,  40,  43,  55. 

Rossetti,  W.  M.,  63. 

Rhys,  Ernest,  339,  368,  379. 

Sharp,  Elizabeth  A.,  25,  28,  46, 
54;  on  Rossetri,  59,  60,  61,  62; 
on  Poetry,  72;  Nature,  84; 
From  Italy,  82,  92;  Paris,  95, 
96;  America,  152  et  seq.  192; 
London,  1891,  192;  W.  Whit- 
man, 193;  Pharais,  231;  Arran, 
243;  F.  M.,260,262,263;  The 
Archer,  266,  268,  274;  Green 
Fire,  275;  St.  Remy,  282;  W. 
S.  &  F.  M.,  285;  The  Way 
Farer,  286;  Ireland,  287; 
Hastings,  290;  Personal  Views, 
294  et  seq.;  Maniace,  352;  Al- 
bania, 362 ;  Lismore,  396 ;  Neu- 
enahr, 400;  Doom,  402.  Sted- 
man,  E.  C,  154,  166,  370,  386. 

Symonds,  J.  Addington,  113. 

Walter,  Kari,  Criticism,  359. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  307. 
To  W.  S.  from 

Allen,  Grant,  232. 

Blind,  Mathilde,  Sport  of  Chance, 
123;  Shelley,  134;  Children  of 


INDEX 


431 


Tomorrow,     147;     Sospiri    di 

Roma,  184. 
Brooke,  Stopford  A.,  75. 
"Brooks,  W.  H.,"206. 
Browning,  Robert,  64. 
Clodd,  Edward,  246-247. 
Douglas,  Sir  George,  253. 
Dowden,  Prof.  Edward,  74,  136. 
Garnett,  Richard,  143,  376. 
Hardy,  Thomas,  199. 
Henley,  W.  E.,  139. 
Hichens,  Robert,  352,  365,  412, 

413. 
Hood,  C.  V.  O.,  Hon.  Alex.  Nel- 
son, 346. 
Janvier,  Thomas  A.,  198;  On  F. 

M.,  264. 
Mabie,  Hamilton  W.,  252. 
Maesfield,  John,  403. 
Meredith,  George,  Sonnets,  114; 

Shelley,    134;       Poems,    144; 

Heine,     143;     Personal,   150, 

156;    Sospiri  di  Roma,   184; 

Pharais,  228. 
Pater,     Walter,     67,     69,     73; 

Motherhood,  73;   The  Human 

Inheritance,  72,  99;  Marius  the 

Epicurean,  104;    Shelley,  133. 
Rinder,  Frank,  126. 
Rossetti,  Christina,  66,  100. 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  41,  44. 
Stedman,     E.     C,     "Victorian 

Poets,"    129,    131,    150,    155; 

Chapbook,  230;    Personal,  274, 

323. 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  116,  118,  138. 
Stoddard,  Richard  H.,  273. 
Story,  W.  W.,  169. 
Swinburne,  A.  C.,  336-337. 
Symonds,    J.    Addington,    101, 

111,  119. 
Tennyson,  Alfred  Lord,  66. 
Vere,  Aubrey  de,  113. 
Watts-Dunton,   Theodore,    106. 

114;    Aylwin,    105;    Sonnets, 

114,  115;  Poems,  128,  302. 
Whiteing,  Richard,  214. 
Wilde,  Oscar,  115. 
Yeats,  W.  B.,  269,  276. 
Feom  "Fiona  Macleod"  to: 
Allen,  Grant,  229,  230. 
Bartlett,  Bridgman  Mrs.,  383. 
Black,  [Kenneth],  360. 
Editor  Pall  Mall  Magazine,  356. 
Gilman,  Lawrence,  390. 
Goodchild,  Dr.  John,  316,  318, 

337. 
Henley,  W.  E.,  268. 
Hinkson,  Mrs.  K.  Tynan,  238. 
Hopekirk,  Mrs.  Helen,  407. 
Le  Braz,  Anatole,  315. 
Macleay,  John,  307,  314. 
Aleredith,  George,  245. 


Mosher,  Thomas,  330. 

Noguchi,  Yoni,  409. 

Rhys,  Ernest,  279,  298. 

Sutherland,  Duchess  of,  406. 

Unknown    Correspondent,    331, 
405. 

W.  S.,  411. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  270,  309,  334. 
To  "Fiona  Macleod"  from: 

Allen,  Grant,  228,  230,  232. 

Gilman,  Lawrence,  391. 

Goodchild,  Dr.  John,  319,  385. 

MacDowell,  Edward,  389. 

Meredith,  George,  245. 

Rhys,  Ernest,  299,  377. 

Russell,  George  ("A.  E."),  277. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  Irish  Theatre,  280; 
F.  M.;  Style,  334;  F.  M.  & 
W.  S.,  421. 
"Lilith,"  176. 
Lismore,  344. 
Literature,   Chair  of  University   of 

London,  149. 
Literary  Geography,  381. 
Loeffler,  Music  and  "F.  M.,"  390. 
"Lover's  Tragedy,  The,"  164. 

Mabie,  Hamilton  W.,  252. 

Macleay,  John.     See  Letters. 

Macleod,  Fiona,  Foreshadowings, 
of,  V-VII,  5,  14,  19,  27,  52-53, 
70,  97,  99,  106-109,  125,  126, 
135;  Adoption  of  Pseudonym, 
222  et  seq.;  Attempts  at  Iden- 
tification, 230,  258,  305. 
List  of  books:  Pharais,  221;  Moun- 
tain-Lovers, 226,  242;  Sin-Eater, 
252,  256  et  seq.;  Washer  of  the 
Ford,  258;  Green  Fire,  259;  From 
the  Hills  of  Dream,  252,  272, 
279;  Dominion  of  Dreams,  305; 
Laughter  of  Peterkin,  279;  The 
House  of  Usna,  310;  The  Im- 
mortal Hour,  310;  The  Divine 
Adventure,  314;  Where  the  Forest 
Murmurs,  393;  The  Winged  Des- 
tiny, 2S7,  322,  381. 
"Fiona  Macleod"  and  "William 
Sharp,"  compared,  52,  53,  97- 
98,  by  Ernest  Rhys,  106  et  seq.: 
Pharais,  222  et  seq. 

Macleod,  Seumas,  12,  14,  52,  316. 

Madge  o'  the  Pool,  261. 

Maesfield,  John,  403. 

Maeterlinck,  190,  19S. 

Magic  Kingdoms,  The,  349,  350,  357. 
See  Winged  Destiny. 

Maniace,  339,  413.  [See  also  Hon. 
Alex.  N.  Hood.] 

Marston,  Philip  Bourke,  39,  41,  42, 
43,  70;  death,  75-77;  poems, 
94,  127. 

Martineau,  Doctor,  39. 


432 


WILLIAM    SHARP 


Meredith,  George,  visits  to,  145  et 
seq.;  Motherhood,  73,  367,  368. 
See  Letters. 

Morley,  Henry,  149. 

Morris,  William,  151. 

Mountain  Lovers,  The,  226,  242. 

Munro,  Niel,  326. 

Murray,  D.  Christie,  42. 

Negro,  Abbate  Cesareo  di,  91. 
Noguchi,  Yoni,  409. 

Odes,  English  and  American,  Great, 

166. 
Omar  Khayyam  Club,  246;  Poem  for 

O.K.C.,312. 
Orchardson,  Monograph  on,  286. 
Ordeal  of  Basil  Hope,  The,  161,  162, 

165. 
Ouida,  81-82,  92. 

Pagan  Review,  The,  192  et  seq.;  Fore- 
word, 201. 

Paget,  Lady  [Arthur],  82. 

Patmore,  Coventry,  163,  164. 

Paton,  Sir  Noel,  36,  41. 

Pater,  Walter,  67,  70,  119-120.  See 
Letters. 

Pharais,  221,  et  seq. 

Phenice  Croft,  200,  267. 

Philpott,  Mrs.     See  Letters. 

Poems,  books  of:  The  Human  In- 
heritance, 72;  Earth's  Voices,  76; 
Romantic  Ballads,  135;  Sospiri 
di  Roma,  173  et  seq.;  From  the 
Hills  of  Dream,  259. 

Poems,  quoted: 

Amid  the  Uplands,  19;  The  Gate 
of  Death,  27;  Two  Sonnets,  32; 
Sleepy  Hollow,  76;  Moonrise,  97; 
To  E.  S.  Robertson,  124;  Ele- 
gaic  Poemjto  R.  Browning,  163; 
In  Memoriam  Walt  Wliitman, 
194;  The  White  Peace,  236; 
Buon  Riposo,  340;  Invocation, 
374;  "O  Wind,"  407. 

Projected  and  unfinished  Books 
quoted:  Upland,  Woodland  and 
Cloudland,  19;  The  Ordeal  of 
Basil  Hope,  161;  Nostalgia,  216; 
The  Woman  of  Thirty,  216; 
Eve  and  I,  216;  The  Comedy 
of  Woman,  216;  Demogorgan, 
216;  The  Times  of  Youth,  217; 
The  Literary  Ideal,  217;  The 
Brotherhood  of  Rest,  217;  The 
Late  Mrs.  PygmaUon,217;  Epic 
of  Youth,  289;  The  Gipsy  Trail, 
14,  276,  326;  Greek  Backgrounds, 
415;  Persephonaeia,  415;  En- 
chanted Valleys,  415. 
Province,  326. 


Pseudonyms  of  W.  S.;  H.  P.  Siwaar- 
mill,  201;  W.  H.  Brooks,  200, 
204,  205.  See  Pagan  Review; 
see  Macleod. 

Rhys,  Ernest,  lecture  on  W.  S.,  106, 

126.     See  Letters. 
Rinder,  Frank.     See  Letters. 
Roberts,  Charles  [G.  D.],  151. 
Robertson,  E.  S.,  124,  127. 
Romantic  Ballads,  135. 
Rome,  173  et  seq. 
Ross,  Charles,  181. 
Rossetti,  Christina,  51,  60,  67,  100. 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  first  meeting,  35,  36, 

37,  43,  et  seq.;  death,  58  et  seq. 

See  Letters. 
Rossetti,  Wm.,  39. 
Rossetti,  a  Record  and  a  Study,  63 

et  seq. 
Ruskin,  John,  169. 
Ru8seU("A.E."),277,  287. 

Schopenhauer,  quoted,  2. 

Scott,  Robert  Bell,  51. 

Severn,  Life  and  Letters  of  Joseph, 
158,  186,  198. 

Sharp,  David  Galbraith,  4,  15. 

Sharp,  Elizabeth  A.  See  William 
Sharp  and  Letters. 

Sharp,  Mary,  "  F.  M's"  Secretary,  94, 
356,  396,  416,  417. 

Sharp,  William,  Childhood,  2  et  seq.; 
College,  13-15;  With  the  Gip- 
sies, 13;  Lawyer's  Office,  14; 
Betrothed,  17;  Australia,  15,  22 
et  seq.;  London,  18;  City  of 
Melbourne  Bank,  27,  53;  Ros- 
setti, 35  et  passitn;  Rossetti  a 
Record  and  a  Study,  63,  69-70; 
The  Human  Inheritance,  72; 
First  Visit  to  Italy,  78;  Art 
Critic,  79  et  seq.;  Earth's  Voices, 
97;  Marriage,  97;  Sonnets  of  this 
Century,  104;  Sport  of  Chance, 
121  et  seq.;  Illness,  125;  Shelley, 
131;  Romantic  Ballads,  135  et 
seq.;  Heine,  143;  Children  of  To- 
morrow, 146;  Canada  and  New 
York,  149  et  seq.;  Broioning,  158 
et  seq.;  Winter  in  Rome,  168; 
Sospiri  di  Roma,  173;  A  Fellowe 
and  His  Wife,  189;  Walt  Whit- 
man, 192;  Phenice  Croft,  200; 
The  Pagan  Revieiv,  200  et  seq.; 
Vistas,  208;  Algiers,  208-212; 
Beginning  of  "Fiona  Macleod" 
Writings,  221  et  seq.  (see  Mac- 
leod); Return  to  Hampstead, 
235;  The  Celtic  Movement,  256, 
et  seq.;  America,  273;  Wives  in 
Exile,  262;  Sile7ice  Farm,  292; 
Madge    o'    the    P.^ol,    261;    The 


INDEX 


433 


Gipsy  Christ,  261;  Art  in  the 
XIX  Century,  312;  Ireland,  287; 
Sicily,  328;  Athens,  375;  Literary 
Geography,  381,  387-389;  Am- 
erica, 393;  Sicily,  422;  Death, 
418-419. 
See  also  "F.  M."  and  W.  S.,  com- 
pared; also  Poems;  also  Dra- 
mas; also  Projected  Books. 

Shelley,  Monograph  on,  131. 

Sicily,  328  et  seq.  See  also  Taormina 
and  Maniace. 

Silence  Farm,  292. 

Sin-Eater,  The,  252,  256  et  seq. 

Sport  of  Chance,  The,  121. 

Spiritual  Tales,  268. 

Sonnets,  American,  111,  137. 

Sonnets  of  this  Century,  104  et  seq. 

Sospiri  di  Roma,  195. 

Stage  Society,  The,  324. 

Stedman,  E.  C.     See  Letters. 

Stevenson,  R.  L.     See  Letters. 

Stoddard,  R.  H.     See  Letters. 

Storys,  The  [W.  W.],  82. 

Swinburne,  A.  C,  336-337. 

Symonds,  T.  Addington,  92,  93. 

Taormina,  328. 
Tennyson,  Alfred  Lord,  66. 
Thompson,  James,  75,  144. 
To  the  Pine  Belt,  18. 
Tragic  Romances,  283. 


Upland,  Woodland,  Cloudland,  19-20. 

Vere,  Aubrey  de,  114,  149. 
Visions,  289,  296,  397,  423-425. 
Vistas,  208,  228. 

Washer  of  the  Ford,  The,  258,  et 
passim. 

Watts-Dunton,  Theodore.  See  Let- 
ters. 

Where  the  Forest  Murmurs,  27,  293. 

White,  Maud  Valerie,  339. 

Whiteing,  Richard,  204.    See  Letters. 

Whitman,  Walt,  2,  93. 

Wilde,  Oscar,  115,  116. 

"Wilfion,"285,  286,  423. 

Winged  Destiny,  The,  331  et  eeq. 

Wives  in  Exile,  292. 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  criticisms,  269,  280, 
307,  334,  424.     See  Letters. 

Young  Folks  Paper  (W.  S.  Editor  of 
Literary  Olympic),  128;  Serial 
Stories  by  W.  S.:  "Under  the 
Banner  of  St.  James,"  129; 
"  Secret  of  the  Seven  Fountains," 
129,  146;  "Jack  Noels'  Legacy," 
129;  "The  Red  Riders,"  129, 
208;  "The  Last  of  the  Vikings," 
208. 

Zola,  Emile,  96. 


BOOKS   BY  WILLIAM  SHARP 


Romantic  Ballads.    (Walter  Scott  &  Co.) 

Vistas.     (Alfred  Nutt.) 

Songs  and  Poems.     (EUiot  Stock.) 

Ecce  Puella.    (Elkin  Matthews.) 

Madge  o'  the  Pool.     (Constables.) 

Monograph  on  Heine.     (Walter  Scott  &  Co.) 

Monograph  on  Shelley.     (Walter  Scott  &  Co.) 

Monograph  on  Browning.     (Walter  Scott  &  Co.) 

Literary  Geography.     (Newnes.) 

Art  in  the  Century.     (Messrs.  W.  &  R.  Chambers.) 

Faur  Women  in  Painting  and  Poetry.     (Seeley.) 

Uniform  Edition  of  the  Writings  of  "Fiona  Mac- 
leod."  (William  Heinemann,  London;  Messrs. 
Duffield  &  Co.,  New  York.) 

Little  Book  of  Nature  Thoughts.  Selected  from 
THE  Writings  of  "  Fiona  Macleod."  (T.  N. 
Foulis,  London ;  Thomas  B.  Mosher,  Portland, 
U.  S.  A.) 

The  Garden  of  Letters.  Papers  on  Men  and  Move- 
ments.    Arranged  by  Mrs.  Sharp.     [Shortly.] 


IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  MRS.  WILUAM  SHARP 


Lyra  Celtica.    (Patrick  Geddes  &  Colt,  Edinburgh.) 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONA 


A     000  025  600 


